Bones to Pick (10 page)

"Home."
Caledonia
answered quickly. "We had a nightcap, and then we went to bed."

"Can the servants verify this?"

Caledonia
laughed. "Do you think we keep them chained in the kitchen until we go to bed? They leave each day after dinner. No one was here."

She was an insulting woman. "Then you have no alibi." I didn't smile. "And where was your daughter
Umbria
?"

They both started, refusing to look at each other. It was the most telling action they could have taken. "She was home with her husband, I'm sure,"
Franklin
said.

"She was in Zinnia for the book signing," I pointed out. She bought a number of books."

"I'm sure she was home by dinnertime,"
Franklin
said. "Her husband enjoys his family time. I do believe Lizzie, the cook, said
Umbria
stopped by here for some spices Saturday evening."

"Could I speak with Lizzie?" I asked.

Rather than walk to the kitchen,
Caledonia
rang a small bell that rested beside the sofa. Tonya silently appeared and was dispatched to retrieve Lizzie. We waited in strained silence until Tonya returned.

"Lizzie has gone to the grocery store," she said, darting a look in my direction. "She left not ten minutes ago. She should be back within the hour."

"I'll stop by another time," I said, aware of the relief on the McGees' faces. "Could you direct me to Rutherford Clark's real estate office?" When they spoke of
Umbria
, it was as if she were single. I could see by their expressions that
Franklin
and
Caledonia
wished she were single.

Caledonia
leaned forward. "
Umbria
made a wonderful match, a Delta boy with an impeccable bloodline. We can't wait for our first grandchild."

How nice for them that one child lived up to expectation. I'd gotten all the information I was going to get. Now it was time to pay a call on Rutherford Clark, and I hoped to catch him before he was warned that I was coming.

I found his real estate office in the heart of
Greenwood
's historic district, right beside the Dancing Rabbit Bookstore. To my surprise, the door was locked. When I rattled the knob, a beautiful young woman with long legs, a short skirt, and a large bosom opened it from the inside.

"Is Mr. Clark available?" I asked.

She frowned, causing a harsh line to divide her eyebrows.

"
Rutherford
isn't here. He's"--the frown deepened-- "Who are you, and what do you want with
Rutherford
?"

"I'm a private investigator, and I want to talk to him." As I'd hoped, my words caused her more worry.

"He's away on business."

"When will he return?"

"In a week or so."

I almost laughed. "Where is he?"

"
Russia
," she said, without a hint of a smile. "It was the opportunity of a lifetime." She sounded as if she'd memorized words that had no meaning.

"When did he leave?" I asked.

"Sunday."

From inside the office, I could hear what sounded like television coverage of some type of sporting event. The young woman glanced over her shoulder, clearly nervous. "Could I step inside?"

She shook her head. "We're closed."

Before I could respond, she shut the door, and I heard it lock. Peering in the window, I watched as she walked to the back of the office, clicking off the lights as she went.

Since I was so close, I stopped at the bookstore to check on the availability of Quentin's book. The store owner told me that she'd sold over two hundred copies. It was impossible to keep the book in stock. Umbria McGee Clark had bought almost all of the copies.

I left the bookstore and took a drive around the town.
Greenwood
is where the Yazoo and
Tallahatchie
Rivers
meet, and for many years it was a big cotton town. The cotton would be brought in from farms all around, ginned and baled, sold by the pound, and shipped downriver or sent by rail. Since the bottom had fallen out of the cotton market, the town had not prospered. There were empty storefronts, neglected streets, and some beautiful older homes needing a coat of paint. I drove to the local library and checked to make sure there had even been a fundraiser.

Peggy Greene, the librarian, was excited to tell me that the fund-raiser had been a great success. The McGees had donated five thousand dollars. They'd been the guests of honor at the event. She moved around the children's section of the library, restacking books as we talked.

"
Franklin
and
Caledonia
have always supported the library," she said. She was a trim woman with intelligent brown eyes. "Why are you asking about them?" She rolled her cart full of books farther down the aisle.

"It's just routine."

"My eye," she said. "You know, we were afraid that after Quentin's book came out, the McGees might not support the library. They aren't really readers, you know."

"Do you have any copies of
King Cotton Bleeds
here?"

She shook her head. "We don't intend to stock it."

"Because it's controversial?"

"No, because it would be stolen." She stared into my eyes and dared me to question her logic. "We've had at least a hundred people call to ask for it, and none of those callers are regular library users. They're just the type of people who steal books. Isn't that ironic? We have a wealth of wonderful books, great literature, which folks won't consider reading. But something scandalous, something that impugns their neighbors, they can't wait to see it."

The McGees held the reins of power at the library. I wondered how much money they'd donated in the last year. "What time was your fund-raiser over?"

"A little before ten. Several people stayed to talk afterward."

"And the McGees?"

She thought for a moment. "They went home, I believe. Yes,
Franklin
said he'd been up early. He'd gone to
Memphis
to take care of something."

Because I have a suspicious mind, it naturally jumped to the postmark of the last threatening note Quentin had received. But the timing was off.
Franklin
couldn't have mailed the note the same day Quentin received it. I needed to study the date of the postmark more closely, though.

"Ms. Greene, did you know Quentin?"

"As a child, she came to the library frequently. Loved to read. Adventure stories and mysteries. Couldn't get enough of them. Over the summer she was eight, she read the entire Hardy Boys series." A faint smile touched her mouth as she talked.

"You were fond of Quentin?"

"She always seemed a little out of place."

I had to tread cautiously here. "I never knew her, but I'm trying to get an idea what kind of person she was. Can you help me?"

She considered for a moment as she put two books back in their proper places. "Quentin was a kind child. She was tenderhearted. I remember one summer day she found a kitten behind the library, just about starved to death. She pleaded with her mother to take it home, but
Caledonia
wouldn't let her. She said cats where filthy creatures, and she wouldn't have one on her place. Quentin sobbed like she was going to die." Peggy looked down at the books on her cart and blinked her eyes. "It still upsets me.
Caledonia
forced Quentin to put the kitten down. It was frightened and ran out in front of a car, and was almost killed in front of Quentin's eyes."

"Quentin must have been very angry with her parents to write that book."

Peggy shook her head. "She changed as she became a teenager. She did everything she could to defy her parents.
Umbria
, of course, only made it that much worse. She was the perfect child. Caledonia was always throwing
Umbria
up in Quentin's face. It was horrible."

"Do you remember anything else?"

"When Quentin was younger, she excelled at sports.
Caledonia
wanted her to take ballet. Quentin refused and played Softball. I don't think the McGees ever went to a single one of her games, but they drove all over the Southeast to watch
Umbria
dance."

It sounded as if
Franklin
and
Caledonia
had done everything in their power to drive Quentin out of the family. They had succeeded, but Quentin's revenge had come in a way they could never have anticipated.

"When was the last time you saw Quentin?" I asked.

"She stopped by a few weeks ago to tell me the release date of the book." Her hand faltered as she slotted a book back into place. "She was so different."

"How so?"

"She was hard. She knew her book was going to hurt a lot of people, and she was glad about it." Peggy turned to me. "She did say that with her advance money, she and Allison were going to fund an animal shelter for stray cats. I think the incident with the kitten really scarred Quentin. Of all the things
Caledonia
did to her, that hurt the worst."

My own mother had been the queen of stray animals. Not only did she pick up strays on the side of the road, she was notorious for snatching hunting dogs that ran illegally across our property. Perhaps that was where my passion for hounds had developed. "I can't imagine upsetting a child that way," I said.

"Quentin was so tender. It was what drew me to her. She was so compassionate and kind. When I saw her last, it seemed all of that had died in her."

"Did you know Allison, too?"

"I met her that day. She was so in love with Quentin. I remember thinking that at last Quentin had found someone who could truly love her, truly appreciate her spirit.

They told me they were getting married and invited me to the wedding."

"She must have thought highly of you."

"I took that stray kitten home with me. Miss Vesta lived to be seventeen."

"No wonder Quentin called you her friend." I put my pad and pen in my purse and pulled out a business card. "If you think of anything, or hear anything, please call me.

"Librarians aren't generally included in the local gossip clubs." Her eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Just in case."

"I hope you can help Allison," she said. "She doesn't strike me as the kind of girl who could kill anyone. In fact, I got the distinct impression she wasn't thrilled with all the pain Quentin caused with her book."

I nodded. "Thanks."

Peggy turned back to her work, and I left for the drive back to Zinnia. Dusk had fallen, and as I drove out of town, I passed a pecan orchard, the delicate branches of the trees like gray fans against a pinkened sky. The Delta was one of the most beautiful places on earth. I wondered at the strange pull of land, home, and memories that had brought me back to a place I'd been busting to leave. It made me wonder why Quentin hadn't simply left
Mississippi
. Left the South. She could have gone to a big city and lived her life with Allison and never raised an eyebrow. Instead, she'd come home to rub her book in the faces of her family and their social peers. It spoke of a hurt bone-deep and a desire for revenge that overrode a desire for happiness. Somehow, I couldn't help but believe that the answer to Quentin's murder would be found in her own dark ambitions.

Just as I hit the city limits of Zinnia, my cell phone rang. Tinkie was calling.