Booty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery (6 page)

“Simple as that?” I asked.

She checked on the progress of the turtles before she answered, and she motioned me away from the group. “Angela was a top-notch reporter. She dug into things and held people accountable. She could have gone on to national prominence. Then her father was killed. Her whole life contracted, and she gave up reporting and moved to the island. She’s spent the last year asking questions. It’s a waste of talent.”

“You know a lot about Angela.” More than a casual acquaintance should.

“I do.” She hesitated. “I dated John Trotter for two years. When I couldn’t take his drinking any longer, we broke it off.”

“I see.”

“Angela and her father were estranged. I was trying to repair their relationship, and making progress. They’d begun to talk a bit, and Angela even visited him on the boat. She felt abandoned by his pursuit of the everlasting treasure. John was a dreamer. An extraordinary man who could weave a tale and captivate any audience. Even me.” She gave a sad shake of her head. “I didn’t care that he talked foolishness. I just loved his heart and his undying hope.”

“And you think Larry Wofford killed him?”

“Beyond a reasonable doubt. I attended the trial. John and Larry drank together. A lot in the latter months of John’s life. Two old sea dogs hitting the bottle, sharing yarns and tales of treasure. Both had given up their families.”

The picture she painted was all too familiar. Lonely men drinking, an argument, a gun. It happened all the time. “Why do you think Angela is so determined to believe Wofford is innocent?”

“I’m no psychologist, but she can cling to the belief her father was about to find the treasure of his dreams. He can be a near success instead of an alcoholic failure. Wouldn’t you rather believe that about your father?”

“So it’s more about her father than Wofford?”

Phyllis Norris shrugged. “That I can’t determine. Wofford is a handsome guy. Charming as all get-out. Angela has a thing for him. That’d make it doubly sad, wouldn’t it?” She shifted so she could monitor the turtles. “I have to get back to my students and volunteers. Enjoy your stay on the island.”

“I will. Thank you. And good luck with the turtles.”

5

I entered the cottage on the QT, but my efforts not to wake Graf were pointless. He hadn’t returned from his walk. I tried his cell phone, only to hear it ringing on the kitchen counter. He hadn’t taken it with him.

I dropped my clothes on the floor and climbed into bed. I’d opened a window, and the pounding surf seemed to match the rhythm of my heart, an echo of loneliness in that empty chamber.

“Having lost much, I know how you feel.” The soft, Southern drawl came from a woman no more than five feet tall, plump and dressed in a gown of black brocade. A thick veil covered her face.

Sweetie raised her head and gave a low, bluesy moan, then returned to sleep. Walks on the beach were wearing her out—and besides, we both knew the apparition was merely Jitty, in the guise of Mary Todd Lincoln.

“What sadness does your getup bode?” I pulled the covers over my head.

“Why do we suffer so much in this lifetime?” she asked.

Peeping out from the covers, I watched her as she lifted the veil to reveal a round face ravaged with sorrow. “I can’t answer that, Jitty. Just tell me, is something bad hanging over Graf?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Mary Todd Lincoln lost her sons, her husband. Her family never forgave her for marrying a Unionist. They were wealthy Kentuckians and supported the South. After Lincoln was shot, poor Mary Todd ended up with nothin’. One remainin’ son, who put her in a mental asylum. And you feel like you’re alone, Sarah Booth. At least you got your posse.”

“Thanks for that, Jitty.” Because my last case involved Lincoln’s extracurricular love life—or at least the supposition of one—I had to ask. “Was Mrs. Lincoln insane?”

Jitty sat down on the edge of my bed. “She had no friends in Washington. She had no family because of her political beliefs and marriage to Lincoln. The man she loved was gunned down in front of her. Was she insane or simply too sad to care?”

Jitty never gave a simple answer. It was almost as if she took pleasure in enigmatic responses. I’d learned badgering did no good. Whatever she intended to reveal would come in its own time.

“What should I do to help Graf?” Maybe that was a question she’d answer. In the past, she was all about micromanaging my love life. Now, when I needed her help, she was mute.

“Might be time to bring in reinforcements.”

Her words were a twist of the knife in my heart. Jitty was worried. “Tinkie?”

Jitty’s frown told another story. “I was thinkin’ more along the lines of Coleman. Maybe a little competition would turn Graf around. Nothing like another dog wantin’ your bone to get a man interested in gnawin’ again.”

“Gee, thanks. I love the comparison to a bone.”

“Maybe you need some silk and satin? Stop by one of those shops that specialize in lace and spandex. Something a little naughty might do the trick.”

The words juxtaposed with her attire were enough to make me question
my
sanity. A sex lecture from a historical figure was too bizarre.

“Stop it. Coleman has a county to protect. He can’t come running to the beach to make Graf jealous. I wouldn’t ask him to.”

“Tinkie would. That gal has spunk. Call her down here. Maybe she can wake him up.”

“I can snap him out of this.” She was making a federal case out of it. So he hadn’t slept with me in a couple of months. “He’s just getting his strength back. Give it a rest.”

“Be careful, Sarah Booth. In his mind, he’s drawn a dividin’ line. There’s the hale and hearty Graf before the gunshot. That’s the Graf you fell in love with and agreed to marry. On the other side of that line is crippled Graf, the man who may or may not have a movie career. You’ve got to figure a way to jump that line and get him to see you’re right there beside him now. Tinkie may be able to help.”

“I’ll give her a call in the morning.”

“Look out yonder window.” Jitty’s warm chuckle escaped and the short and plump body of Mary Todd Lincoln shifted to the more familiar figure of my taller, slender haint.

“Please! Don’t bastardize Shakespeare.” Outside the window, sunrise marked another day. A new opportunity. I would seek advice from Tinkie, and I would refocus Graf and save the day.

“Thanks, Jitty. Sometimes you do come through for me, though never without abundant torment.” But she was gone.

*   *   *

When I roused myself to make the coffee, I found Graf asleep on the sofa in the den. The television was on, but the sound was muted. I made coffee and took a cup to him, nudging him gently awake.

“This is a remarkable place, Sarah Booth. An island paradise. Is everything good with Angela?”

“The sheriff’s department isn’t taking the gunshots too seriously. Maybe it
was
kids driving by.” I didn’t believe it, and neither would Graf.

“Kids with loaded guns. Perfect.” He rose and poured us both more coffee. “I’m getting stronger every day.” He handed me a cup and returned to the sofa.

“I’m sorry about your leg. I’ve never been more sorry about anything in my life. And I know saying it doesn’t change a thing.”

“I don’t blame you.” He stroked my hair back from my face, and I leaned into the warmth of his hand. “Where are you off to so early?”

“I have errands to run in Mobile. There’s a wine shop I want to visit. I thought maybe we’d celebrate tonight.”

“Celebrate what?”

“A surprise.” I wasn’t giving up. I couldn’t. I could take the disappointment and the rejection, but I couldn’t quit. I would pick up our license today and propose the beach wedding to him. I would finish the arrangements with a preacher or judge to meet us on the beach Saturday morning to have a wedding ceremony. It would all come about—because I was hardheaded and stubborn and had all the traits that made me successful and such a pain in the ass.

“I’ll be back by lunch. Shall I pick up some sushi or something?”

“Sure.” The smile he wore was hard won and marred by tension around his eyes.

*   *   *

Dauphin Island is connected to the mainland by the huge hump of the three-mile-long Gordon Persons Bridge, known informally as the Dauphin Island bridge. It is a great vantage point with a tragic past. Even in Zinnia I’d followed the news story of the four young children thrown from the bridge to their deaths by a deranged father.

The world was full of wounded and crazed people who wrecked the lives of others without a second thought. Was a killer still at large in Angela Trotter’s life? Or was she simply incapable of accepting her father as he had really been, as Phyllis Norris contended, a charming yarn-spinner prone to alcohol and violent arguments with his drinking mates?

Angela wouldn’t be the first daughter who couldn’t accept family as they were. And she wouldn’t be the last. I owed Tinkie a call with an update of what I’d gotten Delaney Detective Agency involved in. I also wondered if she had any suggestions for wooing Graf. She knew every trick in the trade, and I was desperate enough to sign on for massive manipulation per the Daddy’s Girl Rulebook for pleasing (and controlling) your man.

I dialed her cell phone as I drove past the bay and canals flanking both sides of State Route 193. I’d barely gotten hello out before she pounced. “What’s wrong, Sarah Booth?”

“How do you know anything is wrong?”

“Oh, please. Your tone of voice is all screwy. You should be filled with sexual languor or at least mischief. You sound like you’re attending a funeral.”

“Well, no wonder Graf doesn’t care to spend time with me.”

Silence was her response as she evaluated my last statement. “Who is he spending time with?”

“Himself. The beach. The dark moon. He slept on the sofa and walked the beach all night last night.”

“What about the beach wedding?” I’d shared my plans with only Tinkie, who’d supported them one hundred percent.

“I haven’t told him. The timing hasn’t been right. He’s trying hard, Tinkie, but something isn’t right.”

“I can come today. Be there in under three hours.”

Tinkie was ready to rush to my assistance, and I loved her for that. “I’m not calling for you to come. Not yet. Tell me how to seduce him.” My cheeks flamed at my ineptitude. Never in my life had I ever needed to ask such a question. “Everything I try—he’s very tender and loving, but just … not interested.”

“He hasn’t wanted to be intimate since the gunshot, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have to get past that event. It’s like it’s built up in his brain. He’s like a horse that’s been hurt jumping. Just get him over the hurdle, and things should be terrific.”

I wasn’t certain Graf would appreciate the comparison, but it worked for me. “Are you sure?”

She laughed, and the sound of her tinkling merriment cheered me more than anything had in weeks. “There are no guarantees where a man is involved, but it sure can’t hurt anything, right?”

“I suppose not.”

“Sarah Booth Delaney, quit acting like an eighth-grade girl with a crush. He’s your fiancé. Entice him, tease him, please him—you know how this is done. Want me to draw some pictures and text them to you?”

“Absolutely not!” The idea of what Tinkie might come up with generated a potent combo of embarrassment and curiosity. I could imagine stick figures in compromising positions.

“I might find a new talent. Just think, this time next year I could be exhibiting at galleries around the country. I could lecture on how my artistic renditions of sexual seduction saved your relationship.”

She was making me laugh, which was her purpose. “Right. Just what I dream about. Having the country caught up in my personal business.”

“It couldn’t hurt.” Tinkie was on a roll. “We could maybe do webisodes. Post them to YouTube. I’m sure Cece could run the camera. Sort of a nice combination of acting and therapy for you and Graf.”

“Stop!” I couldn’t take much more.

“No, you stop! Quit skulking around acting like a timid schoolgirl. Take action. Get that man in your bed and put a smile on his face.”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

*   *   *

With Tinkie’s encouraging words ringing in my ears, I drove straight to the clerk’s office and completed the paperwork for a marriage license. I also contacted the officiant who’d agreed to perform the beach ceremony and supply the witnesses. She wasn’t a county official and she wasn’t a minister, but she was licensed by the state and that was good enough for me.

Then I drove to what had once been Mobile’s daily newspaper. The digital age had hit
The Mobile Chronicle
hard, kicking a daily with a large circulation back to a publication schedule of three days a week. Cece would be mortified.
The Zinnia Dispatch,
with a miniscule circulation compared to the
Chronicle
, still printed daily. But the Zinnia paper was owned and operated by a local family, the way most newspapers used to be. It wasn’t part of a corporate conglomerate.

I pulled into the parking lot and within a few minutes was inside, talking my way into viewing the newspaper morgue. It took a bit of sweet talk, but Angela Trotter was still highly regarded as a journalist there, and I soon had a thick file of her stories.

Angela had been a thorn in the side of the sheriff’s department, the county commission, the city councilmen and mayor, the school system, and just about every other public body or elected official. She knew how to keep a fire lit under those paid to work for the citizenry.

I scanned story after story of ineptitude, outright incompetence, and political wrangling, where the sheriff sided with powerful allies to the point of thwarting justice. Sheriff Osage Benson buttered his bread on both sides. And he’d been in office for at least twenty years.

I wondered how a man with such heavy—and traceable—baggage kept getting elected, especially with Angela’s stories painting him as either stupid or corrupt.

As I read, I made notes of people who might possibly want to harm or annoy Angela. When I finished, I had filled three pages of my notebook with names of people powerful or wealthy enough to cause Angela grief.