Game of Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “That Peter Deerstalker fellow had a big argument with her. And some of the investors were fighting with her, too.”

  “Here at the dig?”

  She shook her head. “No. I was in that little Laundromat in town. I mean, we have to wash our clothes sometimes. I hate being dirty all the time. Anyway, I had stepped out in the alley to smoke a cigarette and here comes Dr. Wells. She usually made Delane do her wash, but she was carrying a load of laundry when that Tunica Indian guy blocked her path. I peeked around the corner and saw them. He was mad and she was haughty.”

  “What happened?” Tinkie asked.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sweetie Pie and Chablis circling the students. They had lost interest in watching us talk to Kawania and had opened some beers. Most work for the day had ended with the discovery of the professor’s body. Pluto had climbed up to the first branch of the big oak tree. He was watching like a hawk. Many times I envied his ability to get above a crime scene where he could check things out from a completely different angle. When Kawania started talking, I drew my focus back to her.

  “That Deerstalker guy, he was really pissed. He told her she had to stop the dig and her TV shows. That desecration of his ancestors wasn’t fodder for fat idiots who had nothing better to do than sit in front of a television thinking they were great explorers.”

  “What did Wells say?” I asked.

  “She laughed at him. That nasty laugh of hers, which pretty much said she thought you were a scabbacious worm. When he told her he was serious, she told him to fu … to get lost.”

  “And that was it?”

  “Not exactly. He told her she’d regret using his people for her own gain.”

  “Did he threaten her?”

  “Depends on what you consider a threat. He said she’d be sorry for all the harm she’d caused. He said his people were tired of being used by others for personal gain, and that he meant to stop her no matter how he had to do it.”

  That pretty much was a threat, taken in the context of Sandra Wells’ murder most gruesome.

  5

  While we were at the mound, Tinkie and I decided to poke around. I was curious about the excavation, which was so dang methodical I would have found some dynamite and blown the site wide open. Not really, but the idea of using a small and delicate brush to remove tons and tons and tons of dirt was the road to madness for me. Patience was never a virtue I could claim. Tinkie, on the other hand, pretended fascination and went off with several of the graduate students to get a full-fledged lesson in the technique of archeological digging in this type of soil. Duplicitous was her middle name.

  I was merely thankful that Sweetie Pie didn’t smell bones and go hog wild. She, too, had thrown in with a couple of students who were taking selfies with her ears. The ears were very long and exceedingly attractive. She looked as if she might be able to fly with them, a la Dumbo. They were so cute I took some photos, too, unbeknownst to the students.

  I’d never fully appreciated the size of the mound. It was far off the highway, and through the trees that had grown out of the sides, it had been difficult to see from the road. I’d never known the Bailey family who’d lived atop it.

  The old home site was easy to find. Burned timbers and blackened bricks—handmade by slaves, no doubt—were scattered around. Kids and god knew who else had picked through the rubble. When the dig crews showed up, Hafner put an end to local foraging. Before I’d moved home or Coleman was elected, the sheriff had roused high schoolers out of the place on more than one occasion. Not because there was anything there left for the kids to destroy, but when the house was standing it was a danger. The stairs could have fallen or the floor given way. In the humidity of the South, a neglected wooden structure doesn’t last long.

  The fire had removed the temptation of the old house as a place to gather to drink, smoke, experiment with drugs, and tell ghost stories. Of course the property was said to be haunted by a woman in a gossamer gown who guarded the house from vandals. Or perhaps it was the slender man in a black hoodie, or the little girl with the black eyes, or now whatever was lumbering around in the woods that the students were afraid of.

  A grove of oak trees, planted at what would have been the front of the house in an arrangement that yielded a shady and hospitable front yard, were sentinels without a purpose. Other volunteer trees had sprouted up and created a thick veil around where the house had stood. The Baileys hadn’t maintained the grounds with the vengeance necessary to keep them in good repair—a reality I knew well with Dahlia House. This climate, with the long, long growing season, the good soil, and plenty of rain, was heaven for weeds and trees as well as cotton. I was one person with a house that needed a crew of workmen and half a dozen gardeners. I did the best I could, but my fence rows were growing up with scrub oaks and maples. Since I wouldn’t use chemicals, I’d have to resort to a bulldozer when the fence was replaced. I’d accepted that fact. Nature would reclaim the land—and not long after the humans were gone. In many ways, that was a bit of comfort.

  I nudged aside a few of the remaining timbers, upsetting an ant bed that was a reminder of how cruel the land could be to those who muddled about unawares. Fire ants, not a native species, had come into the United States from South America on a ship docked in Mobile Bay. They’d spread like any plague—and their bites were as painful as fire. During a flood the ants would roll together in a ball and continually circulate so that none drowned. They were clever little devils.

  Beneath the ant bed was a glimmer of ceramic, and I used a stick to unearth a blue willow china plate in perfect condition. It had survived the kids, the vandals, and the fire. In that split second I understood why digging up old relics was so important. It was that instant connection with the past, with the knowledge that someone else had stood on that exact piece of ground and this had been a part of his daily life. The china pattern told me much about at least one of the people who’d frequented Mound Salla.

  “I don’t think the 1800s is of particular interest to the professors.”

  The male voice came from behind me and I whipped around to face Peter Deerstalker. He took the plate from my hand and examined it. “My grandmother admired this pattern. We were too poor for any kind of china, but she loved blue willow. She said it told a powerful story of love and transformation.”

  I must have looked confused, because he added, “Native Americans can also fall for the legends and tales of china makers who are Chinese.”

  I had to laugh at that. “Yes, I suppose. It’s a sad story, though. My aunt Loulane told it to me. The beautiful Chinese girl fell in love with someone of a lower station. They ran away and married, but the father eventually found them and killed them.”

  “But you’re forgetting the best part. The gods were so moved by their love that they transformed their spirits into two doves where they could be together.”

  I had forgotten that part. “That makes it even sadder.” And for me, it did.

  “This pattern was a favorite of the Hearst family.” Peter handed the plate back to me. “A lot of upper-class women collected the dishes. I suppose you have a set at Dahlia House.”

  I shook my head. “My mother was unconventional. If there are china patterns at Dahlia House, they’re tucked away in the attic. Some future generation will have to dig them out. My mother liked unmatched place settings, handcrafted clay pieces. One-of-a-kind things. Growing up, I had the most unique room décor. My mother would be impressed I saved most of it for my own little girl.”

  “Are you expecting? I’d heard your detective agency was going great guns. But that urge to have a child is hard to resist, isn’t it? I suppose that is the ultimate experience for a woman.”

  His question and comment startled me, but only for a moment. “No. I remain unwed and unbred. No time now for children. Maybe later.” I absolutely would not let the thought of Jitty enter my head.

  “I didn’t know your parents well, Sarah Booth, but you do remind me of you
r mom. She had the same … saucy tongue.”

  “Well put.” My mother hadn’t held back. She didn’t conform to expected standards of behavior for Southern women. Not in her actions or her speech.

  “Your father helped my father with some land deeds.” Peter seemed in no hurry to get to the point of why he’d sought me out. “That was a long time ago. Your dad was a fair man. At that time, a lot of people wouldn’t take on an Indian as a client. We couldn’t even get haircuts in some of the barbershops.”

  I’d never heard those things, but Peter was older than I was. And my parents had protected me from some of the worst of the behavior of people around me. “People can be idiotic.”

  “They can.” He looked beyond me to the charred remains of the house. “Three years ago my people wanted to make an issue of this mound, but I talked them out of it. I knew the house was falling down. I figured it would be better to wait until the place caved in and it was obvious there was no interest in the Bailey family claiming it as a homestead. The tribe wanted to stake our claim for what is rightfully a burial ground. I talked them out of it.” The muscle in his jaw flexed. “I waited too long. I didn’t know about the fire, which was the only thing holding back this dig. Now, trying to assert our claim to this land is going to be even harder.”

  “The timing of the fire is a bit suspicious.” I’d thought that before he said it. “Do you know anything about how the fire started?”

  “Nothing. It could have been lightning, as the fire chief indicated. There was no electricity on the property.”

  “It could have been kids fooling around.” Sunflower County was a close-knit area. No one would uphold kids setting an abandoned house on fire, but also it was possible no one looked too closely. The house was gone but the stain of a felony charge could ruin the lives of some teenagers. Another factor was that none of the Bailey family was around to press charges. As far as I knew, if any survived they had scattered to the winds. “Are you claiming that this land belongs to the Tunica tribe?”

  “Only the mound, which is where our ancestors have been laid to rest. Although we could make a claim for every acre of land in the region, we haven’t. And we don’t intend to.”

  I had to be honest. “I don’t think your claim is going to stand up in court.”

  “I suspect you’re right. If our ownership was upheld, then the entire continent would be in question, wouldn’t it?” His smile gave his face an entirely different look. Beneath the fierceness of his gaze, I sensed his weariness. He looked like he hadn’t slept a lot in recent days, and the first thing I wondered was why. Had he been up all night here at the mound, with Sandra Wells? “Will you be in Zinnia for long?” I asked.

  “I’m staying with an old friend near here, Elton Cade. Do you know him?”

  “He’s an investor in this dig and a phenomenal Mississippi success story.” And I’d heard them arguing heatedly not so long ago.

  “And an old friend of mine. We shared dreams for Mississippi. Elton has seen his come true.”

  “He’s a big reason this dig is happening.”

  “I know. We disagree on this, but it doesn’t affect our friendship. Elton believes that by learning about the Tunica tribe that lived here, and the people who came before, that understanding will be fostered. He believes people fear what they don’t understand.”

  On the surface, I could agree with that premise. Peter did not. “A tough decision for your people. I’m sure you’re eager to learn the secrets of this mound.”

  “I’m more eager to see that my ancestors rest in peace. I’m a deeply religious man. This is a sacrilege. Elton doesn’t understand that, but I can guarantee that if I were in the Sunflower County cemetery digging up graves of prominent white people, there would be an outcry.”

  He was right. No one dug up European graves to study. “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing. Watch the dig. Make sure all remains are handled properly. There’s nothing else I can do.”

  “What was your relationship with Dr. Wells?”

  “When she first came to Zinnia, she was very charming. I met with her, had a few drinks…” He shrugged. “Nature took its course. Then I realized she was working me, trying to keep me from getting upset about the dig. She was a shameless woman who didn’t understand that limits couldn’t be crossed.”

  “Did you kill her?” My thought was, why not just ask? I would see his reaction, and Peter Deerstalker was a hard man to read.

  He laughed. “No, I didn’t. My battlefield is the courtroom. Killing people isn’t the solution to this. Wells is dead, but if Hafner goes to prison, others will just come to finish. There’s been too much publicity. This can’t be stopped. You see, killing Dr. Wells wouldn’t benefit me in the least.”

  He wasn’t being completely honest. If he could stop this dig—even for a short time—it might give him the legal room to file for control of the mound. “Then you won’t mind telling me where you were last night?”

  “I was a guest in Elton Cade’s home.”

  “And that’s where you were?”

  He smiled again. “You should have been a lawyer. I had dinner with Elton and his delightful family.” A shadow crossed his features, but only briefly. “Lolly Cade is a lovely woman.”

  I tried to probe the shadow beneath Peter’s words, but without success. It was gone before I could even ask about it. “But you left the Cade house, didn’t you?”

  “I did. I met a student, Kawania, for a drink.”

  He was a good twenty years older than Kawania. She was a college student, for heaven’s sake. My opinion showed on my face.

  “I wasn’t robbing the cradle, though that girl could probably teach you and me a few things. She has Tunica blood. I knew her mother, and I wanted to see if she might want to join some tribal gatherings.”

  “Where did you have drinks?”

  “At a local blues club.”

  And that I could easily check out, seeing as how I knew the owner of the club very well.

  6

  Peter bade me goodbye and started down the steep side of the mound. I’d failed to ask what he’d come out here for. Maybe to get his story straight with Kawania. She was in a huddle with three other young people who kept glancing at me. I made a call.

  Scott Hampton, owner of Playin’ the Bones blues club, confirmed that Kawania and Peter were at the club at midnight. Then he lost track of them when the band kicked up a long set. In the middle of the set, a small kitchen fire had commanded Scott’s attention. I could not prove or disprove Peter’s alibi, at least as far as Scott was concerned. I’d call Cece and see if her beau, Jaytee, the harmonica player, had a memory of Peter and Kawania in the club after midnight. I’d learned the hard way that so many people were simply unaware of the activities around them. Trained observers—not! The bogeyman could be drinking blood at the table beside them and they’d be oblivious. That’s why Tinkie and I were so valuable.

  Speaking of my partner, I looked around to see that Tinkie had developed a rapport with the students, and I wasn’t surprised. She was all high-society glitz, but she never disguised her big heart. People, especially young folks, were drawn to her. I gave her space to work the students and I continued exploring the remains of the old Bailey house.

  As I kicked at timbers and poked through rubble, I tried to remember the stories I’d heard. There had been a great scandal in the family. I’d heard different accounts about it. There was a murder in the house—a terrible scene with a hatchet. That had been the beginning of the end of that once prestigious family.

  Eventually, the Bailey family had simply disappeared. Rumors were that Martha Bailey had moved back to Oklahoma, where she had a sister. The children moved away. The house had been empty for about a decade. Then it burned.

  I came upon a pile of old, charred timbers that had been pushed up with a bulldozer or tractor. Something about the haphazard arrangement of the stack of debris made me stop. It was almost as if someone was hi
ding something. I pulled a few timbers away. They were mostly ash and lighter than I’d thought. At the bottom of the pile was dirt.

  “Damn.” I’d gotten all dirty and sooty for no reason. I was about to turn away when Kawania walked up. She stepped onto the area I’d cleared, and stopped when her footsteps echoed.

  We looked at each other as the meaning dawned on us both. I signaled her aside and photographed the area. I couldn’t be certain because I’d contaminated the scene, but it looked like someone, or something, had shifted the dirt and leaves off the area and then put them back, trying unsuccessfully to disguise the evidence of their meddling. Simultaneously, Kawania and I dropped to the ground and began scooping the soil and debris away. Beneath several inches of dirt was wooden planking with a large thumb bolt. And a round ring.

  “It’s a cellar,” I said.

  “Let me call the others over to help.”

  “No, wait.” I waved her down. “Let’s take a look before we have a stampede over here.” I did manage to get Tinkie’s attention, and she headed our way.

  “What if Dr. Wells was murdered because of something down in this cellar?” Kawania said. “We should call the sheriff.”

  “We will.” I wanted a look-see before anyone else got down there. Kawania didn’t seem impressed with the delay. She nodded toward Tinkie, who was approaching.

  “You should step back and call the sheriff,” Kawania said. “You two could mess up evidence.”

  “We work for Frank Hafner,” I said. She was bright enough to realize that we were Frank’s best bet for freedom. If she cared about that.

  “You screw up the evidence and it doesn’t matter who you work for. You could destroy something that would save Frank’s bacon.”

  “She’s right.” Tinkie didn’t like siding against me, but she did anyway. “Call Sheriff Peters. Besides, maybe you can have some private time.” She said it with a straight face, but Kawania cast me a long, speculative look.

  I dialed Coleman. “We’ve found something at the old Bailey place. A cellar. Tinkie won’t let me go down there.”