Booty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery (8 page)

*   *   *

Mobile County kept trial evidence in a storage facility, and after doing a little legwork, the property clerk helped me locate the Larry Wofford file. The sad thing was, there was little to go on. No murder weapon. No evidence of a motive. The physical evidence was a box with fingerprint files, blood samples, photos—the usual.

A private investigator shouldn’t be upset by crime scene photos, but I was. John Trotter was shot in the chest in front of his desk. He fell backward and died on the floor. It was a violent and gruesome scene. A man was dead, and his daughter was left with a sense of injustice and loss.

I’d get a trial transcript from the court records for reference, but the attorney McGowan had filled me in on the broad strokes. As much as I liked conspiracy theories, it didn’t seem probable Sheriff Benson had gone out of his way to frame Larry Wofford. Or I hadn’t found the connection to take me down that path. Not yet, at least.

From the evidence, which included Chavis’s investigation notes, Wofford’s conviction rested on the fact he was on scene, which he never denied. No motive except drunkenness had ever been tendered or proved. Alcohol, guns, and tempers could be a lethal mix, but these men were known to be friends. Benson believed they’d caught and convicted the right man, but I wasn’t so certain.

*   *   *

On the drive back to the island, I listened to a local radio station, surprised to hear that the tropical storm in the Caribbean has been upgraded to a Category One hurricane. According to the excited DJ, the storm was headed into the Gulf, where it was expected she would slow forward movement and gain intensity.

It was hard to take such things seriously when the weather was picture-perfect. When I got back to the cottage, I needed to see if the television had access to a twenty-four-hour weather channel. While there was no sense of urgency or worry, I also knew enough about gulf storms to realize I had to pay attention. Hurricane Margene might be the biggest bitch I’d ever confronted.

I stopped at a specialty grocer and picked up organic vegetables for dinner and then hit a local seafood shop on the way back to the island. Nothing like fresh red snapper for a perfect meal. And a sushi snack for Graf while he was waiting for dinner.

Tonight, I would propose the wedding to Graf. I simply couldn’t allow his distance to thwart me. I had to bring our relationship back on track, and I couldn’t let my tender feelings get in the way of achieving the goal. Graf loved me and I loved him. Nothing else mattered.

When I got to the cottage, Graf was watching television. “It could get bad, Sarah Booth. Maybe we should pack it in and go home to Zinnia.”

According to the news coverage, the storm was compact—nothing like Katrina. That didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous, but it wouldn’t overwhelm the Gulf Coast. Everything depended on which steering currents took hold of it. On east and west extremes were Tampa and Brownsville. In other words, Hurricane Margene had the entire Gulf Coast as her playground. Only time would tell where she would strike.

“It’s still too early to throw in the towel,” I said.

“I don’t want to be here if Margene comes dead at us.”

“Me either.” I moved behind his chair and rubbed his shoulders. They were tight. Graf might appear relaxed, but the opposite was true. He was like a high-intensity spring—coiled and ready to unleash.

“Let’s have an early dinner. Spend some time together.”

“Do you have something on your mind, Sarah Booth?” There was almost a suspicious tone to his voice, as if I were plotting some nefarious deed.

“Being with you. Putting the past behind us. We can play cards, talk, drink ourselves silly. What does it matter as long as we’re doing it together? I miss you, Graf. You’re right here in front of me, but you’re not really with me. It feels like a part of me has been amputated.”

He caught my hands in his and squeezed them. “You deserve so much better than me.”

I felt my heart crack at his words. “Oh, no, Graf. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. You are. I’m sorry you were hurt, but I’ve learned something so important. There is nothing in my life that even comes close to you.”

He inhaled and his shoulders sagged. “I’m not worthy of your love.”

I would not badger or argue. I would only love. I kissed him, slow and tender. “I missed lunch, but I picked up some sushi to snack on until I grill the snapper, asparagus, and sweet potatoes.”

“Sounds delicious.”

Pluto jumped in Graf’s lap and rubbed his whiskers on Graf’s chin. I went to the kitchen. Pluto could do more to lift Graf’s spirits than I could. And I had work to do.

*   *   *

After the grilled snapper, we took a stroll on the beach. Graf improved each hour, it seemed. He was walking and jogging in the sand, tackling the rehab with all he was worth. I wanted to praise his hard work, but I wisely kept my mouth shut.

Instead, I held his hand and let the wind blow the cobwebs of strife out of our lives. A more perfect day could not have been invented.

Back at the cottage, we talked about the Black and Orange Ball and what surprise Tinkie and Cece had in store for me. They’d promised something special, but I had no idea what it might be. Graf had purchased a gown for me on Rodeo Drive, and it was a creation to behold. He had a tux that would have made James Bond howl with envy. We were ready for the big event, which would also mark the celebration for our wedding, though Graf didn’t know it yet.

As we talked, my dream of marital bliss seemed within my grasp. We’d gone through the dark land of shadows and doubt and come out on the other side. “Let’s go back.” I tugged at his hand as I whistled for Sweetie Pie. Pluto had refused to leave the cottage.

“Sarah Booth…” His voice faded.

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I closed the distance and wrapped my arms around his neck. “What is it, Graf?” Lingering doubt kept him from sweeping me into his arms, as he would have done before he was shot. “I don’t care if you act again or not. I’ve made some decisions about my life. I’ll find someone to care for the horses, and I’ll stay in Hollywood with you. I want a solid marriage. I want that more than a career.”

He untangled my arms and held me at arm’s length. His expression was … disturbed. “I won’t allow you to do that. I won’t.”

“I’m doing it because I love you and want to be with you. In Los Angeles, while you’re making your films. We can return to Dahlia House in between. This is the right thing, Graf. I want to be your wife, the mother of your children. I want to champion your films and be with you to share your successes.”

“That’s not who you are, Sarah Booth. I won’t allow you to turn yourself inside out for me. I don’t deserve it. You won’t give up your life for me.” He strode away from me, and for a long moment I stood on the beach and watched him disappear into the distance, walking away from the cottage rather than toward it.

7

The cottage came with two bicycles—the wonderful old cruiser kind with fat tires and upright handlebars. Although it was windy, the sun was bright and the day warm enough for jeans and a short-sleeve shirt. I decided to ride into the town of Dauphin Island and see what I could discover.

Graf’s reaction had unbalanced me. Instead of dwelling on why he’d reacted so strongly to my offer to support his career, I decided to work. Time and distance might generate the wisdom I needed to figure out what was going on with him.

Because Sweetie Pie was the best-behaved dog in the universe, she went with me. A constant breeze blew the tang of salt as we set out. For the most part, the pedaling was easy, except where sand covered the road. That required a bit more effort and better balance, but as we left the west end of the island, the road cleared and our ride took us beneath palms and oak trees that had weathered many a storm.

As I rode along, I tried to imagine what the island was like when the first European explorers came on the scene. It was long a destination of the Native American tribes that populated the Gulf Coast. Pascagoulas, Biloxis, Chickasaws, Creeks, Choctaws—there were many different tribes and allegiances. It must have been a paradise with the white sand beaches and the beautiful aqua surf.

When I came to the T where the main road ended, I chose town. Sweetie trotted at my side, barely panting while I huffed and puffed. The coastline of the island was spectacular, but the interior held a different kind of beauty—pines, oaks, palm trees, and older residences that had withstood many a hard storm.

The island was home to a number of families who’d settled there in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Whatever their heritage, they all had a huge helping of tough. When the hurricanes came barreling out of the Gulf, these people hunkered down, rode it out, and managed to survive, often cut off from the mainland and all power supplies.

They were the shop owners, the men and women who earned their living from the water. Boat repair, beach rentals, grocery providers. It was a tightknit community much like Zinnia.

I passed the marina, where the
Miss Adventure
was moored. She was a beautiful boat, and well cared for. In fact, cleaning and paint supplies were on the deck. I wondered if Angela maintained the boat herself. It hurt my heart to think she kept the boat so well preserved as an homage to her father. I’d always been told the two most labor-intensive hobbies were boats and horses. I couldn’t speak to boats, but horses required time and sweat. And were worth every minute of it.

Looking at the lines of the sailboat, I could appreciate the high adventure of treasure hunting and the life of a vagabond sailor. John Trotter had been a romantic, a dreamer, and the boat reflected those things in her graceful lines and teak fittings. She was the epitome of a treasure-hunting boat with her high mast and crisp black, red, and dark green trim. If I were the type of person to indulge in fantasies, I might imagine Jack Sparrow or even Captain Hook striding across the deck to the bow.

The figurehead was incredible—a woman in flowing robes, one arm pointed toward the sea. Whoever had carved her had been a master. I’d read that the figurehead was used to ward off bad luck. A woman, snakes, unicorns, or other animal forms supposedly protected sailors from the many disasters that could arise on a voyage.

The lovely lady on John Trotter’s boat hadn’t been able to protect him. His quest had ended in a tragic death, and one that had marked his daughter in a cruel way.

I pushed off in a northerly direction. Exploring the small town on bicycle took me back to my youth, when I’d cruised around Zinnia, finding shortcuts through people’s yards and playing cops and robbers with my classmates who lived in town. Zinnia had seemed so big then. Now it was a small town whose city limits could be cleared in less than ten minutes. Perspective.

An antique shop sign caught my eye, and I parked on the side of an alley and asked Sweetie to guard the bicycle. I wasn’t too worried anyone would steal it. The city center was empty, and Dauphin Island didn’t seem like a place where a bicycle thief would lurk.

As I pushed open the door to Terrance Snill’s Antiques, a brass bell jangled. A slender man with a crop of sandy curls stood up from behind a counter with an old-fashioned cash register. He held a beautiful silver platter he’d been polishing, but he put it aside and came out to greet me.

“May I help you?”

The scent of lemony furniture polish filled the shop, and I glanced around at highly waxed and burnished antiques, some of them exquisite. Cece and Tinkie would have a field day in this store. A china cabinet with a curved glass door and an intricate beveled mirror would look fabulous in the dining room of Dahlia House. The lovely library table would be the perfect touch in the Delaney Detective Agency office. I had to shut off the consumer streak that had suddenly opened up before I had to hire a furniture truck to get home.

“I’m renting a cottage this week on the beach,” I said, extending my hand and giving my name.

“Terrance Snill, proprietor and recently retired postmaster.”

“You have some lovely pieces.”

“Thank you. A lot of the best old family pieces were lost during Katrina, but I’ve picked up a few nice ones over the past years.” His hand brushed lovingly across the surface of the oak library table I’d admired. “Antiques are a sad business. These were pieces once loved by families who have either died out or been left to those who don’t care about old things.”

I’d never thought of antiques in that way, but it was sad. Dahlia House had so many wonderful pieces that were part of my ancestry and personal history. The old horsehair sofa—as uncomfortable as it was—I couldn’t imagine parting with. The sideboard in the dining room had held breakfast buffets for the Delaney family since before the Civil War. I knew the stories for each chair or table or dresser. The family tales about each scar that marred a wooden surface were part of me.

“I guess some people just want new things,” I said.

“So true. Philistines who think nothing should last longer than five years. Not furniture, not a car. Not even a marriage. But on occasion good families fall on hard times. That’s the worst. I pay top dollar, but money doesn’t mitigate the awfulness of watching a woman cry as my movers haul out her great-grandmother’s pie safe.” He shook off the melancholy that had settled over both of us. “But what can I help you with today?”

“I’m not a serious shopper. I just saw your store and came in to nose around. I have a house in the Mississippi Delta. Growing up around so many antiques, I can’t resist admiring them.”

“Help yourself.” He stepped back, and my gaze followed him to a painting on the wall. In the oil portrait, a dark-haired man wore a ruffled white shirt with a rich wine-colored coat. He stared boldly down at me. My knowledge of historical styles was limited, and while I couldn’t pinpoint his decade, I was familiar with the mischievous glint in the man’s eyes. He was a rascal and likely a lawbreaker. Even with the long curly dark hair and formal heavy velvet coat, he was a bad boy.

The artist had done a remarkable job. The man posed before a globe showing a ship sailing across the blue Atlantic. His right hand held a spyglass and his left a map.