Bones to Pick (24 page)

He held the door, and we left the bank together. I'd never doubted Oscar's love for his wife. Now he had to convince her of it.

I followed him out of the parking lot, and when he turned to go to The Club, I headed north. It would have been a better trip with Tinkie as a companion, but she needed to focus on her marriage. I could handle an interview with a beautician's sister.

The brown cotton fields stretched out on either side of the road as I headed north. Almost a year had passed since I'd come home and started to work as a private investigator. In that time I'd solved five cases and gained and lost sixty pounds in five-pound increments. I was still wearing the same black jeans and driving the same car. I'd been engaged and unengaged, involved and abandoned. One of the best things that had happened was my partnership with Tinkie.

As the roadster covered the miles, I thought about the past. It was a dirty pleasure with me, and I indulged. Growing up, I'd never considered there was another world other than the Delta. The land was part of my subconscious. My parents discussed it as if it were a family member, and with their deaths, I had become custodian. It marked me and shaped me in small, indefinable ways. The longer I stayed in
Sunflower
County
, the more I would belong to the land.

My drive paralleled the river, and even though I couldn't see it, I knew it. Brown and lazy looking, the
Mississippi
was strong. The man-made levees contained it, for the moment. But the river's whim could change everything for miles around.

The photographs in Oscar's office had shown cotton being readied for shipment downriver to
New Orleans
. Down to the mills, where city labor had turned the fiber into thread. Now machines did the work.

At last, I hit the outskirts of
Memphis
and headed west, toward
Arkansas
.
West Memphis
had been the boomtown for the blues. The greats, like Howlin' Wolf and Muddy Waters, had played in juke joints. Time had changed everything--for better and for worse.

The beauty salon I sought was another half hour away, and I watched for my exit. From what I'd learned, Jolene had taken over the salon after Belinda's death.

The shop was called Shear Excellence, and once I was off the interstate, it wasn't hard to find. In fact, it was the only salon I'd ever seen advertised on five billboards. The ads themselves were interesting. Sexy blondes, redheads, and brunettes posed in provocative positions, with the line "Let us 'do' you." Subtlety was indeed a dying art.

When I spotted the shop at last, I was agog. It was huge, more like a Wal-Mart of hair. Belinda Loper must have been raking in the dough. I got out and walked inside. A teased young girl looked at me with contempt. "We don't take walk-ins," she said, "and we're booked through January."

"Is Jolene Loper in?" I forced a smile.

"Ms. Loper is busy. Like I said, we don't take walk-ins."

I smiled and walked past her.

"Hey! Come back here!"

I ignored her shouts and kept walking past chair after chair of stylists working on hair. There were bleach jobs, perms, cuts, blows, curls--everything that could be done to hair. I kept walking, with the young receptionist snipping at me like a rabid
Chihuahua
.

I spied a door at the end of the salon and opened it without the least hesitation. I was met with a squeal.

"Damn nation! That hurt!"

I rounded the corner and came upon Jolene Loper holding a strip of wax and what had once been someone's very personal hair. A woman reclined on a table covered by a sheet.

I slammed the door in the
Chihuahua
's face and leaned against it.

'You said it wasn't going to hurt. You're a damn liar." The woman shifted up on her elbows so she could see who'd entered the room. "Hey, if you're here for a bikini wax, don't! It hurts like hell."

"Fashion is supposed to hurt." Jolene dropped the wax into a trash can and snapped off latex gloves. "Quit whining, Beth Anne. If you want to compete with the girls on
Montgomery Street
, you're going to have to update your act."

"Update is fine. Having my skin torn off is not." Beth Anne swung her legs down and sat up. She was a beautiful woman, if a little overly made-up. "Who are you?" she looked at me.

"A private investigator."

Jolene turned slowly around. "I know you. You're from Zinnia. What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you, Jolene. About your sister." There was no easy way to say what had to be said. "I'm working on a case--"

"I paid Belinda's back taxes and all of that."

I shook my head. "It's about her death. About how she died."

Tears formed in Jolene's eyes. "It was horrible. When she didn't answer her cell phone, I came here looking for her. I found her. She'd convulsed on the floor. It was gruesome."

Beth Anne found her jeans and pulled them on. "We were all just plain horrified."

I gave up on trying to be delicate. "I think Belinda may have been murdered. Did she receive any kind of threatening note before she died?"

Jolene's eyes narrowed. "There was a note."

My heart beat faster. "What did it say?"

She frowned. "She put it in her office somewhere. It might still be there."

"Let's take a look."

She opened a door that led to a small office. Sitting down at the desk, she began to pull out drawers and shuffle through the contents. I watched, praying she would find the note.

"Here it is!" She drew out a plain white page, just like the notes Quentin had received. Typed in the same font were the words
It's a great day to dye!

I looked over the note to Belinda. "Did she ever report this to the police?"

She nodded. "She did, but no one took it seriously. I mean she's a stylist. D-y-e."

"When did she receive the note?"

"Last March. About a week before she inhaled the dry peroxide. She'd gotten another one before that. Something to the effect that her business was in poor taste." She shook her head. "We've heard that all our lives. Poor taste. But that's no reason to kill someone, is it?"

I didn't say anything, but I saw it on her face. She knew. Her sister's death was not an accident.

18

As I drove home, I felt as if a year had passed since I went to the reading of Allison's will. I tried repeatedly to call Tinkie on her cell phone, but there was no answer. She had it turned off. I could only hope that Oscar had found her and that they were together, ironing out the hurt and pain of their relationship.

My fingers hovered on the cell phone pad, and at last, I dialed.

"
Sunflower
County
Sheriff's Office," Dewayne drawled.

"Is the sheriff there?"

"Why, hey, Sarah Booth," he said. "Coleman was here, but he left about ten minutes ago."

"Do you know where he went?" I tried to sound nonchalant.

"Couldn't rightly say. You want me to tell him you're looking for him?"

"No."

"Need some help handling that dangerous bomb you received?"

A flush crept up my neck. "No. Not tonight. See ya, Dewayne." I hung up fast.

Millie's was still open when I hit town, so I stopped for a burger. Most of the tables had been cleared when I sat down, but to my surprise, Marilyn and Lorilee were having dinner at a table in the front. In a far corner, Harold sat with a cup of coffee and some papers.

I'd barely taken my coat off and sat down when Lorilee came over. "Why, Sarah Booth, I heard you had a terrible scare."

Everyone in the place stopped eating to listen.

"Drop it, Lorilee. I need to talk to you about something serious."

"You're the only person I know who could confuse a vibrator with a bomb. Makes me wonder if you'd know what to do with the real thing."

Cutlery was on the table, and I wondered if a stainless knife would work as effectively as a wooden stake. "I'm not an expert in battery-operated toys like you."

Marilyn had risen from her seat, but she didn't move. She only stood and watched.

"I heard you and Tinkie and that newspaper person were all cowering in the house while your gift vibrated around the driveway." She laughed. "That must have been a sight to behold."

Before I could respond, Harold stepped to my side. "Lorilee." He oozed charm. "I haven't consulted your financial statements, but I have a tip for you--invest in sex toys rather than young boys. It's far less expensive in the long run."

Harold assisted me from my seat. "Let's go to my place."

"You, too, Harold?" Lorilee's face contorted in a sneer. "What does she have that fascinates men so?"

"Perhaps it's her kindness, Lorilee. Something you have none of, so are therefore doomed to a life of loneliness."

We left without a backward glance.

Once out in the night, I kissed his cheek. "What a gallant rescue."

"Nothing better than to slay the fire-breathing bitch. Are you still hungry?"

"Yes."

"I have some pheasant soup I made yesterday."

Harold was a gourmet cook, and I appreciated his talents. "That would be lovely."

"Follow me." He got in his Porsche and led me to his home.

When I turned down Harold's oak-lined driveway, I stopped. Rope lights had been wrapped around the tree trunks and limbs, creating a fairyland. I remembered Harold's Christmas party last year. He was a man's man with a great sense of the magical.

He was waiting for me on the porch when I pulled up at the house. "Are you having another holiday party?" I asked.

"Yes. But I keep the lights up year-round." He smiled. "I have a remote. I turned them on for you."

He led the way to the kitchen, and while he heated the soup, I sliced bread. We sipped a dry red wine as we worked. When everything was prepared, we sat at the small kitchen table. "Much cozier than the dining room," I said. The large table there seated twelve.

"Oscar never came back to work today."

"I never found Tinkie." A flicker of concern washed over me, and he must have read it on my face.

"They have to work it out alone."

"I know."

He smiled. 'You're a loyal friend, Sarah Booth."

"Tinkie is more than just a friend. She's like a sister to me."

'You've changed her. She's stronger, more confident. You've been good for her."

"Oscar may not feel that way." I ate a bite of the dark pumpernickel bread. "They love each other. It's just that Tinkie's hurting."

Harold picked up my hand and held it gently.

"And you're hurting, too."

I squeezed his fingers. "Have you heard from Rachel?"

"Yes. She's in
Mexico
."

"Is she going to open some salons with a Latin flavor?"

He laughed. "She's an amazing businesswoman. She combines financial savvy with an unerring ability to know what the public will pay for."

"And you miss her."

"Tremendously."

"Call her."

As if the phone company did my bidding, my cell phone rang. I jumped for it, pulling it from my coat pocket, knowing it was Tinkie.

"Sarah Booth, dahling," Cece drawled, "I've found something that may interest you."

It wasn't that I didn't want to talk to Cece, but I'd so hoped it was Tinkie. I struggled to hide my disappointment. "What did you find?"

"Where are you? I want to show it to you."

"I'm at Harold's." I watched his expression as I talked. He was curious.

"I'm on the way," she said.

Before I could respond, she hung up. I closed the phone and looked at him. "Cece has something to show me, and she's on her way here."

He laughed. "An impromptu party. I'll set another place."

Cece was knocking at the door before I could pour the wine. "The lights are
magnifique."
She breezed in waving a sheaf of papers, took the glass of wine I offered, and slid out of her coat. "Look at these." She thrust the papers into my hand.

"We were just having some soup and bread," Harold said, holding a chair for her.

I took my place and studied the newspaper clippings about the tragic death of Marilyn's mother, Karla. Cece had pulled up the clips from the
Birmingham
newspaper, which covered the freak accident in great detail.

Cece's attention had fallen on the soup, and she attacked the food with great gusto. "Harold, this is delicious. I'm impressed. I'm doing a column on holiday food for the Thanksgiving issue. I'd love to feature you."