Bone Appétit (2 page)

She’d planned a vacation getaway for us to the nearby town of Greenwood and the famous Viking Cooking School. While it was a ruse to pull me away from Dahlia House and my depression, it was also, as Jitty pointed out, a chance for Tinkie to care for me. Jitty was right, but the lethargy that tugged at my heart left me unable to move.

“Sarah Booth, only time can help you get by this, and pinin’ away here, alone, is only prolongin’ it.”

Another point on Jitty’s scorecard. I pushed away from the old oak. I had to fight this depression. I couldn’t give in to it. The Delaneys were fighters, not quitters. “Okay.”

The smile that spread across her face carried enough wattage to light up Dahlia House. “That’s my girl.” She fell into step beside me as we walked past the old cemetery shaded by cedars and toward the house. “Now focus your cookin’ lessons on manly foods. None a’ that froufrou stuff that don’t satisfy. And remember, don’t ever eat nothin’ pink and foamy. Those are words to live by.”

I stopped in my tracks. “Pink and foamy? Like what?”

“Like cherries or strawberries mixed with cottage cheese. Or none a’ that pink mousse stuff.” She shuddered. “Nothing crème-filled that’s pink. Just take my advice and stay away from it.”

I’d never known Jitty to have an anti-pink obsession. “There’s more to this story.”

“And I’d tell it, but your ride to vacationland is here.”

Sure enough, I heard the crunch of tires on the shell drive. Though the house blocked my view, I knew my coach and driver had arrived in the form of a brand-new Cadillac with Tinkie behind the wheel.

“Have fun.” Jitty swept off the chef’s hat as she faded into oblivion—a trick I was determined to learn if I ever got stuck between Earth and the Great Beyond.

“Sarah Booth! Sarah Booth!” Tinkie’s little fists beat at the front door as she called my name.

“I’m in the backyard,” I yelled. I put my ass into gear and trotted around the corner of the house to meet my friend.

“Your chariot awaits,” she said, waving at the brand-new tomato red Caddy Oscar had given her as a gift.

“Let me grab my bags.”

A silver bowl of green apples centered the marble registration desk of the Alluvian Hotel. I sampled some iced peach tea in the lobby as Tinkie checked us in. Although I wasn’t P.I.-ing, I did deduce that the Alluvian had a great dental plan—the hotel staff all smiled, displaying handsome teeth.

The lobby was quiet, a reflection of the noon hour, and cool, a tribute to man’s ability to air-condition. A bar and restaurant branched off one side of the lobby, and a series of lounging areas were on the other side. Peeking into a room, I could imagine folks gathered around the grand piano in a far corner.

Across the street was the famed Viking Cooking School. Delta ladies entered and exited with shopping bags full of kitchen spices and the latest in equipment and gadgets.

Tinkie and I were scheduled to take classes at the school in a matter of hours.

“Ready?” she asked. A bellman loaded our bags on a cart.

“Absolutely.”

Tinkie offered separate rooms, but I’d opted to share one. After all, the point was to battle the loneliness, not give in to the desire to hide in the dark. The bellman took our luggage to the top floor, where a chilled bottle of champagne and a pitcher of orange juice awaited us in a room that gave a view of downtown Greenwood.

“The hotel staff thinks of everything, don’t they?” Tinkie said, popping the cork with proficiency.

She mixed mimosas in crystal champagne flutes. Indeed, the hotel supplied a polished touch. She kicked off her shoes and climbed into one of the double beds. “So, we have our first class this afternoon. It’s party appetizers. When we get home, Sarah Booth, let’s have a party. We can show off our new entertaining skills.”

“You assume I’ll acquire some.” The mimosa was delicious, and I settled onto my bed. The tension in my shoulders lessened.

“Oh, we’ll both be prepared to dazzle guests when we finish this course.”

From the hallway came a loud thumping and banging. Tinkie and I both started to our feet. What sounded like a scuffle ensued, and someone pounded on the door of our room. Before we could react, the door flew open and two beautiful young women tumbled in. They were almost buried in luggage, which they unceremoniously dumped to the floor.

“Who put us in the same room?” the brunette growled.

“I’m going straight to the desk.” The blonde picked up a huge suitcase and tossed it into the hall where it slammed against something—or someone.

Tinkie calmly put down her drink and picked up the telephone. She punched in the number for the front desk. “Yes, this is Mrs. Oscar Richmond. We have intruders in our room. Please come immediately.” She hung up with a smile.

Both young women finally realized they had an audience. They stood, luggage up to their thighs, and stared at us.

“Who the hell are you?” the brunette asked.

“Tinkie Bellcase Richmond.” She hoisted her drink as if in a toast. “Don’t bother with your name. You won’t be staying long enough for me to give a damn.” She settled back onto the bed. Tinkie had taken an instant dislike to the women, which was unusual for her.

The brunette rose to the challenge. “Wanna bet? We’ll have those beds stripped and you out on your ass before the flies can settle on you.”

The blonde, petite and wide-eyed, put a restraining hand on the brunette. “Calm down, Karrie.”

Karrie shook her off. “Don’t touch me, you country-fried hick. If this old bat wants a fight, I’ll give it to her.” Karrie, whoever she was, had seriously misjudged Tinkie. While my partner was short, she could kick ass like a Spartan.

Tinkie slid to her feet. She was a good ten inches shorter than Karrie, but she was undaunted. Tinkie and her eight-ounce dustmop dog, Chablis, had more courage and spunk than a busload of gang members. “Who, exactly, are you calling an old bat?” she asked, advancing.

I snapped to, aware that for the last three minutes I hadn’t been depressed at all. “Hold on, Tink,” I said. I fell in beside her. If there was going to be a hair-pulling, Tinkie and I were going in together.

The blonde stepped between Karrie and Tinkie. “Stop it. We obviously have the wrong room.” She pushed Karrie’s bags toward the door. “Let’s go to the desk and get this straight. I want another roommate, anyway.”

Karrie wasn’t ready to back down. She glared at Tinkie. “Do you have a daughter in the contest? You’re too old to cut the competition.”

“I may have a few years on you, honey, but genetics tell all,” Tinkie said. “Your bone structure gives it away—some combination of Snopes and Wicked Witch of the West.”

“What contest?” I couldn’t help myself. I felt like my earlier wish had been partially answered and I’d fallen backward in time to high school. I’d actually been aiming for grammar school, but time travel is hard to predict.

“The Miss Viking beauty contest and spokesperson competition,” the blonde answered with a world-weary roll of her eyes. “The finalists are here this week for the cook-off and the runway talent contests. The winner gets a $200,000 contract to serve as Viking spokesperson and travel the world, not to mention scholarships and potential endorsements of food products worth millions.”

“Fascinating,” Tinkie said.

“I’m Crystal Belle Wadell.” The blonde made it clear the rhyming of her name caused her much grief. “That’s Karrie Kompton.” She pointed at the brunette. “She’s already way ahead in the Bitch on Wheels category and she’s about to win the Most PMS-ing title.”

“I see,” Tinkie said in a droll tone that told me Crystal Belle had amused her.

“Ladies, you obviously have the wrong room. Best to take this up with the desk.” I’d enjoyed the fireworks, but now I was done with it.

And just in time, two hotel staffers appeared in the doorway. In a matter of moments, Karrie and Crystal were assisted down the hallway. A door slammed and loud complaints blasted from both women as the hotel staff did their best to resolve the roommate issue. From what I overheard, the lodging decisions had specifically been made at the
request of the contest manager—someone with a wide streak of sadism or who’d perhaps grown weary of the spectacular bitchiness of Karrie Kompton. I felt a brief second of pity for Crystal Belle.

“Surely all the contestants can’t be that awful,” Tinkie said, somewhat echoing my thoughts.

“Might be worth catching the talent competition if it’s being held locally.”

Tinkie’s face lit up. “Excellent idea. I’ll check at the desk for tickets or information. For now, let’s have a facial. The spa across the street has this to-die-for facial. Then we’re on to appetizer school at four o’clock.”

She babbled happily about beauty products I’d never heard of as we refilled our glasses with mimosas and ambled across the street for a full beauty treatment.

Even I, a non-cook, was dazzled by the Viking Cooking School. I donned my apron and stood surrounded by state-of-the-art appliances that actually had me thinking of whipping up a batch of . . . well, nothing specific came to mind, but I wanted to create some magnificent edible concoction. Such is the power of fancy tools. I couldn’t help but wonder if the same would apply if someone put a really nice drill into my hands. Would the urge to “do” carpentry come with the tool?

“Earth to Sarah Booth! Earth to Sarah Booth!” Tinkie tugged at my sleeve. “What in the world are you thinking?”

“About carpentry,” I admitted.

She shook her head. “Don’t even try to explain.” Her smile told me that whatever my mental deficiencies, I looked more relaxed. She gave me a big hug. “Let’s make those appetizers.”

I’d never considered appetizers had a history, so it was interesting to learn the Athenians introduced the first hors d’oeuvre buffet. Even more fascinating was the concept that appetizers are meant to
whet
the appetite. I’d always assumed they were designed to keep guests from chowing down like porkers at the main course.

Tinkie, of course, was a scholar in this field. We chopped, blended, whirred, and designed our Bouche Cream Cheese Prosciutto into elegant scoops nestled in crystal star-shaped holders and garnished with cross-cut cherry tomatoes. We then turned our hands to Miniature Quiches as light and delicate as the flowers they resembled. During the process I watched Tinkie with pleasure. She loved to cook—as long as it wasn’t part of her job description. She cooked for pleasure, not necessity, and her parents and Oscar provided her a life that allowed such an attitude. Tinkie had married well.

To my surprise, the class was a total delight. When we finished, Tinkie and I headed back to the Alluvian and a revitalizing cocktail. The hotel bar was jammed with beautiful young women, and we found a table in the corner and sat back to watch the interaction.

Karrie held court at the bar, surrounded by a half dozen well-dressed men who did everything except chew her martini olive for her. Beauty is a powerful weapon, and those men had been mortally gaffed. They hung on Karrie’s looks, flirtations, and expressed whims.

A dark-haired woman, half in shadows, sitting alone in the farthest corner of the bar, caught my attention. Black eyebrows over china blue eyes, delicate cheekbones, and full lips—she looked like a movie star.

“Who’s that?” Tinkie asked.

I shook my head. “Never saw her before, but she is striking.”

“She’s got a burn on for Karrie Kompton.” Tinkie, too, had observed the way the dark stranger’s gaze drilled holes in Karrie’s back.

“Somehow, I can understand that.” We clinked our glasses in a toast.

“Think she’s part of the beauty pageant thing?” Tinkie asked.

“Yeah, I’d say so. The other women seem to know her, but I wonder why no one is sitting with her.”

“Maybe she has cooties,” Tinkie said.

“And I thought we’d been time-warped back to high school. Now I see we’ve regressed all the way to second grade, where classmates are infested with that legendary parasite.”

“Seriously,” Tinkie said. “I’ve been watching the interaction. The other girls act like they’re afraid of our Dark Stranger.”

I signaled the barkeep for another round of cosmopolitans. Despite Jitty’s admonitions, we were drinking pink in honor of Cece Dee Falcon, who would join us as soon as she finished a deadline at the
Zinnia Dispatch
, where she was society editor and chief investigative reporter. It was an unusual combination of journalistic work, but then all the best crimes in the Mississippi Delta involved high society. She had the background knowledge on debutants and debuts, soirées, socials, engagements (broken and otherwise), marriages (those that held and those that didn’t), and other information crucial to a good juicy story when a crime spree broke out amongst the landed gentry.

Cece had also been a part of the landed gentry until she went to Sweden and had the part of her that bore the name Cecil permanently excised. Her family had disowned her, but Cece carved out a new life for herself from the ruins of her old one. She had strength I could only envy.

The bartender brought our drinks, and Tinkie motioned him closer. “Who’s that woman in the corner?” she asked.

“Hedy,” he said without hesitation. “Really nice gal, unlike some of the other contestants.” He glared at Karrie’s back. “Some of these girls think the whole world spins in an orbit around them.”

Before he could collect our empties, a bouquet of white roses as wide as the doorway waddled into the room on two human legs.

“Karrie Kompton?” a rough, low voice said from the midst of the flowers.

“For me?” Karrie squealed with the best sorority girl abandon I’d heard in years. “Oh, look, everybody, someone sent me flowers.”

While the bartender rushed over to help the deliveryman put the flowers in a safe place, Karrie snatched the card and ripped it open. Her face flushed with pleasure, and she tapped her glass with a cigarette lighter to make everyone hush.

“Everyone! Shut! Up! I want to read my card.” She cleared her throat. “ ‘A gift for the fairest princess in the land. Knock ’em dead.’ ” She fluttered the note and squealed again. “It’s signed, ‘Your secret admirer.’ Isn’t that just the best? A secret admirer. It’s so . . . romantic.”