Bone to Be Wild (15 page)

“We're here to see Bijou,” Harold said. “Have you seen a little—“

I whacked him in the back of the heel. “Tell her Harold Erkwell and his date are here.” There was something familiar about the man, but I couldn't see him clearly.

“She didn't say she was expecting company.”

“We're surprising her. And who are you?” I asked sweetly, doing my best to use the frisky, interested tone Tinkie managed so well.

“None of your business,” he answered.

Obviously I had a lot of work to do on smooth-talking men.

“Come with me.” He led us to the front porch where the light illuminated his face. I almost gasped. I did recognize him. From Reverend Farley's camp. He was the man who'd come out of the church and watched us.

“What's your name?” I asked in a less friendly tone.

“Mason Britt, Miss Delaney,” he said, pressing the point that he knew me. “I'm Ms. LaRoche's farm foreman.”

I was about to ask him if he belonged to Farley's congregation when Bijou opened the door. “Harold!” Then she caught sight of me. “And you.”

“We were in the neighborhood and thought we'd stop by for a drink,” Harold said.

Oh, right. Awkward, much? I could have brained Harold for not having a better excuse. Bijou loathed me and I couldn't stand her. Stopping by for a social visit was a bit hard to swallow.

“Fascinating,” Bijou said. She linked her arm through Harold's and totally ignored me. “I'll mix you a nice bourbon,” Bijou said to him. “I'm sorry, Sarah Booth, but I'm all out of drain cleaner.”

“Bourbon is fine,” I said brightly.

Bijou's home was an interesting blend of the past and the modern. She had a good eye for paintings, even though I hated to admit it. While she pressed Harold into an overstuffed leather sofa, I wandered around the parlor appreciating the artwork she'd accumulated. A vase that looked as if it had been cut from a tree trunk caught my eye. The work of DeWitt Lobrano was distinctive. And highly sought after. Bijou had paid a pretty penny for his pieces.

She had lowered her voice and was murmuring something to Harold, but I ignored them. If she wanted to suck the juices out of him and he was fool enough to sit there and let her, more power to them. Because it was clear Bijou had no intention of preparing drinks, I helped myself to her bar and also took Harold a libation. Just to show a little class, I served her one, too.

He winked at me and put his arm around Bijou. “Isn't she a special creature?” he asked.

“Oh, definitely,” I agreed. “You have some nice art, Bijou.”

“I can't believe you recognize fine art,” she said.

“I like good wine, too. Harold can tell you.” It wasn't a great dig, but I had Roscoe on my mind. As soon as I could escape to search for him, I'd do so. I didn't want to arouse Bijou's suspicions and I also had to beware of Mason Britt lurking about in the night.

Harold eased back from her. “Bijou, the strangest thing has happened. Roscoe has disappeared. Now I'll be free to squire you all over the country.”

“Really!” She sat up, victory in her eyes. “I know you loved the little guy, but he really did impede your lifestyle.”

“He did,” Harold agreed, though I watched his grip on his drink glass turn his knuckles white.

It was the past tense of
love
that had gotten to him. If Bijou had harmed Roscoe and Harold discovered it, she would suffer.

“I just can't believe he left by choice.” Harold put his drink down and pulled Bijou closer. “I'm so glad I have you to offer solace. I've come to realize, Bijou, my life is empty without you in it. I can live without Roscoe, but I'm not certain I can live without you.”

“Though she isn't nearly as cute or smart as the dog,” I said under my breath.

I thought Harold might choke, but he regained control and frowned at me. “I need to tell Bijou something private. Would you mind, Sarah Booth?”

“And I need a cigarette,” I said. “I'll be back in,” I checked my watch, “ten minutes. Whatever it is you need to do, please be finished when I get back.”

“Make it twenty minutes,” Bijou said. “There's a coat in the closet by the door.”

She wanted me out of there badly. Harold had played her like a Stradivarius.

Because I wanted to snoop, I made a production of opening the closet door, getting the coat, and then going back to the parlor. “Maybe I could just smoke in here?” I asked. “It's cold out there.”

“Even a country bumpkin knows not to smoke around fine art. These paintings don't need your vile nicotine.”

“Okay, I guess it's outside then.”

I slammed the door behind me and stepped out of the front porch light. I pulled out a cig and lit up just in case Bijou was watching. After a few minutes, I edged farther and farther into the darkness until I'd cloaked myself in the night. Then I hauled ass to the barn.

“Roscoe!” I whisper-hissed his name. “Roscoe?”

Silence answered me. Bijou wasn't the type to have horses or cows. She had no pets on the property at all. Except for Mason Britt. And he was a serious worry. But finding Roscoe was my only concern.

I worked my way to the slave quarters. Nothing alive answered my calls as I opened doors and whistled for the dog. What I did find in the last cabin, though, was a small office set up. Desks, computers, printers, a copy machine, scanners. It was an impressive operation. A stack of flyers had been left on a desk. I picked one up.

“Satan loves a sinner, and sinners love the blues.”

The flyer went on to link blues music with everything from Satan to pedophilia. The most outrageous propaganda. It didn't take a mathematician to add crazy talk with Mason Britt and come up with Jebediah Farley. I just wondered if the sophisticated Bijou knew Mason was using her equipment to spew hatred. Bijou supported the blues club. This was directly against her stated interest. She might not know what her employee was using her copiers, printers, and time to produce.

I grabbed a few of the flyers and folded them into my jeans pocket. These deserved some study. I wanted to read the fine print. Roscoe, though, was my first priority. I headed back into the night.

The last structure was a long low building I would have used for an equipment shed. When I got there I realized that the back of it had once kenneled hunting dogs.

“Roscoe?”

A whine answered me.

“Roscoe, where are you?”

Another whine led me deep into the interior. I couldn't see worth a crap so I brought out my phone and used the light from it to find the little guy. Roscoe was curled, trembling and whining, in a pile of old feed sacks in the far rear of a kennel. My heart pounded with anger. He was hurt, scared, and freezing.

I crawled into the kennel and did a quick examination of his back and legs, holding my phone in my mouth to give me light. There were no open wounds, no gashes, no gunshots, but when I touched his ribs he moaned in pain. I tried to coax him to stand, but he didn't want to move.

I picked him up and tucked him into my coat as I duck-walked out of the kennel. When I could stand up straight, I hurried to the car. “Stay here,” I said as I settled him onto the floorboard. I got a quilt out of the trunk and thanked the heavens Harold was prone to impromptu picnics. He keeps quilts, blankets, bug spray—all the necessities of outdoor life in the South—in the trunk of his car.

I covered Roscoe. “Don't make a sound,” I told him. “I'll rescue Harold and we'll take you to the vet.”

My impulse was to rush into the house and snatch Bijou by the hair of her head, drag her outside, and kick her ass all the way to the wretched kennel she'd stuffed Roscoe into. Then I wanted to shut her in there, lock the door, and leave her to freeze. Wisdom tamped down my fury. Such action would give me emotional gratification, but I'd lose the upper hand.

Instead I rushed into the house and flopped on the sofa where Harold and Bijou cuddled. “I'm sick,” I said. “I think Bijou poisoned the alcohol.”

“You stupid beast, you poured your own drink. I didn't touch it.”

“Oh, no, I'm going to barf.” I got on my knees and made gagging noises as I leaned over Bijou's lap.

“Get away from me.” She tried to push me aside, but I collapsed on her, wallowing and gagging and moaning.

“Remove her,” Bijou said, “and don't ever bring her back.”

“I'm so sorry,” Harold told her. “I'd better take her home. Why don't you come over to my house in half an hour?”

If she did, Harold would find some inventive way to torture her once he learned what she'd done to Roscoe.

“Okay,” she said. “We'll pick up where we left off.”

“What about Yancy?” I asked. “Isn't he your lover?”

Bijou was a little taken aback, but she had a ready answer. “I don't owe you an explanation, but Yancy is a business partner.”

“Is Gertrude Strom a partner, too?”

“Get out of my house.” She'd had enough of me.

Harold helped me to my feet and supported me out the door. I decided to keep the warm coat I'd borrowed. Screw Bijou. It might come in handy at the voodoo shop when I found time to vacation in New Orleans. Didn't they need an article of clothing or some hair to make the curse work properly? If so, I could meet the need.

At the car, I gripped Harold's arm. “Roscoe is hurt. We need to go straight to the emergency clinic.”

He tried to turn around and go back in the house, but I stopped him. “Roscoe needs you, Harold. Bijou can wait.”

“I intend to hurt her like she's never been hurt.”

“And I'll help. Now drive.” I snuggled the dog in my arms as we roared down the darkened driveway.

 

9

The emergency clinic was staffed by a young vet I didn't know but who took Roscoe into an exam room with Harold as soon as we walked in the door. The minutes ticked slowly by. A few whimpers came from behind the closed door and I cringed. Roscoe had to be okay. He couldn't be seriously hurt. Harold would blame himself until the cows came home.

He'd left his jacket and cell phone in the chair beside me, and when his phone rang I remembered that Bijou was supposed to meet him at his house. She would be enraged. Good. I picked up the phone. “Darling, Harold and I are busy. What do you want?” I panted and moaned. “Oh, yes, right there, Harold. That's the spot. Oh, baby, yes, I know I'm the sexiest woman around.”

“I'll get you both for this.” Bijou hung up.

Whatever Harold had planned for her, my little prank wouldn't mess it up. He'd wait. He understood the old maxim was based on truth: revenge was best served cold. Bijou had a serious comeuppance in her future. And she'd be totally unprepared when it hit.

I pulled out the fliers I'd liberated from the slave cabin. The ugliness and hatred spewed across the page nauseated me. Bijou might not know what her foreman was up to, but I found it hard to believe. Yet, give the devil his due, as Aunt Loulane would say, it didn't make sense, if Bijou wanted to capitalize on the upswing in tourism that a real blues club would bring into Sunflower County, that she was participating in printing handbills that decried the music, saying it “reeked of the devil” and would do all kinds of evil, including bring down democracy and destroy the earth.

At last Harold and Roscoe came out of the exam room. Harold was wrung out, and Roscoe rested, relieved of his pain for the time being. “What?”

“Someone kicked him and broke two of his ribs. He was lucky they didn't puncture a lung.”

Beneath the expression of worry and exhaustion, fire crackled in Harold's eyes. There would be blood. “Will he be okay?” I asked.

“Yes. Dr. Knizley wrapped his ribs to give him a little support and protection. I have to keep him quiet and still.”

“Good luck with that.” Roscoe cannonballed through life like he'd been charged with jet fuel.

“We'll do just fine. He's my boy.” Harold stroked his head.

“Let me drive you to Dahlia House. You and Roscoe can stay with me if you'd like. Sweetie Pie will mother him.”

“Maybe just for tonight.” Harold bumped me with his shoulder. “Thank you for saving him.”

“It was your plan. I'm just glad it worked. Oh, and Bijou called. I pretended we were having sex.”

Harold's smile was slow, but it arrived nonetheless. “I reserve further comment because I don't want you to know what I have planned. You can cling to your innocence.”

“The first time in history. Let's head home.”

I drove slowly, glad Roscoe had been sedated and now slept. I still had on Bijou's coat, and I reached into the pocket to search for gloves she might have left. My fingers found a small card. I handed it to Harold. “What does it say?”

He switched on the interior light. “It's a business card from Alton James, the attorney.”

“Now that's a damn twist of events.” I filled him in on Gertrude and the lawyer, wondering the whole time how Bijou was involved. The heiress seemed to have her finger in everyone's pies. “Do you think she's paying for Gertrude's legal defense?”

“I wouldn't put it past her. Bijou has a streak of perversity. She seems to support Scott and the club, but that could be a fa
ç
ade. A vibrant blues club would help her B&B business, but it would be a lot more lucrative if she owned and controlled the club.”

“She told Angela Bowers she'd prefer a ballroom dancing and dinner club. A better class of clientele was how she put it. She is devious.”

“Not to worry. I have a few tricks up my sleeve, too.”

“How about a burger from the Sweetheart Caf
é
?” Millie's was closed, but the drive-through was still open.

“My treat,” Harold said. “It isn't dinner in Venice, but it will have to suffice until Roscoe heals.”