Greedy Bones (9 page)

She nodded. "Worried about Tinkie, I'm sure."

That had to be it. Worry did strange things to the Delaney women. Stories abounded of tilted uteruses, snarled Fallopian tubes, ectopic pregnancies, and hydra-like endometriosis, not to mention the dreaded "fallen" uterus, as if the organ itself had committed a sin worthy of being cast down. All of these much-discussed ailments were laid at the feet of anxiety and worry. Genetics might dictate eye color or refined hands or the handsome arch of a foot, but worry and anxiety wrecked the breeding potential of Delaney women.

Millie put a glass of water on the table, and I snapped out of my mental family medical album. "I am worried about Tinkie. I'll take her some breakfast when I leave."

"Sure thing. I'll be back." Millie swung through the cafe, refilling coffee cups and dropping a smile or an "I'll get that, sugar" on her regulars.

I was looking straight at the door when Bonnie Louise walked in, her shapely legs tan and perfect in a pair of shorts and hiking boots. The Colorado fashion statement caught the attention of every man and woman in the cafe. Bonnie made a beeline toward me.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked.

What could I say? "Have a seat." I focused on the eggs and grits.

"Coleman says this is the best place to eat in the Southeast."

"He would be right." I aimed at pleasant. Surely by now someone had told her Coleman and I had a history, but she could only goad me if I let her.

"I'm glad I ran into you, Sarah Booth. I wanted to ask you something."

I stopped eating and waited.

"Word is that you broke things off with Coleman before you went out to L.A. Is that right?"

"That's really not your concern." A curl of nausea started in my upper stomach.

"I'm interested in him, and I wanted to be upfront about it. He told me he'd filed for divorce. He should be a free man in a matter of months."

I considered my response as carefully as I could under the circumstances. "Coleman feels an obligation for Connie. Married or not, he's always going to care for her."

"Not a problem for me." She waved at Millie as if she were in a fancy eatery ordering a minion around. "Coffee, and make it fresh." She dismissed Millie and zeroed in on me. "I gather that was a problem for you."

"What is the point of this conversation?"

"I like what I see when I look at the sheriff. I want him. But I don't like stepping on someone to get what I want. I'm asking because I want to be sure the field is clear."

I had no intention of explaining my complicated relationship. "Good luck," I said.

She nodded. "That's what I wanted to be sure of. I didn't want to move in on your territory."

So she wasn't a poacher; she was still a barracuda. But Coleman was a grown man. "I have no claim on the sheriff."

"I heard you were all hooked up with some handsome
Hollywood guy and would be going back out there as soon as this illness is cleared up."

"I haven't made any plans and don't intend to until Oscar is well."

"Not my business." She held up a hand like some teenager.

That really annoyed me. Bonnie Louise got under my skin. I sipped my coffee. The nausea I'd been battling surged forward, and I thought for a moment I might throw up. I looked down at her boots to see how much damage I might be able to inflict. The sensation passed, and I took a breath. "Are you planning a hiking expedition? I guess you've forgotten the Delta is flat."

She laughed. "I remember the land and the soil you call 'gumbo.' Down in the bogs it used to pull my shoes right off my feet. I used to ride with Daddy on the combine and the cotton pickers. I loved that."

For a split second the edge left her voice and I thought I heard true sadness. "Does your family still farm?" I asked.

"No." She picked up the cup that Millie put in front of her. "Good and fresh," she said to no one in particular.

My appetite had evaporated, and my stomach, while fine now, wasn't totally trustworthy. If the spastic gut didn't stop, I'd talk with Doc.

"What made you go into research?" I asked.

"I like science, and I like puzzles. Research has both. What made you decide to be a private investigator?"

"I sort of stumbled into it." No point fibbing about that.

"Well, stay out of this investigation, okay? Let me rephrase.
Stay
out of this investigation."

"Let me rephrase for you, Ms. McRae. Oscar is a friend. I'll do what ever it takes to help him."

"Get in my way, Sarah Booth, and I'll roll over you. I'm not some
localite
you can intimidate." Her face brightened and she began signaling.

When I looked over my shoulder, I saw Coleman walk through the door and head toward our table.

"Coleman, I hope this table is okay?" She looked around. "Sarah Booth was just leaving."

"Sarah Booth," Coleman said. "How are you?"

"Perfect. Any change in Gordon?" I asked.

He took off his hat, revealing a fresh haircut. "They're all still holding their own. Doc figures that's not as dismal as it might sound. They could be going downhill."

"Has he found the cause?"

He put his hat on the table. "They're still not sure if it's bacterial or viral or what. The tests so far are inconclusive."

"I'll catch up with you later," I said. "I've got to get some food to Tinkie."

"Give her my best," Coleman said.

"Yes, give her our best," Bonnie added.

I left the table without another word. Suddenly her nickname was perfect. Beaucoup Bitch.

Tinkie accepted the food and ate without comment. I don't think she tasted a single bite, but she knew she had to keep up her strength.

Standing at the window, I watched Oscar and Gordon. The nurses came in and hung new bags of fluids and left. Doc entered with two strangers in tow. They read the charts at the foot of each bed, examined the patients carefully, and then walked out in a huddle.

"Go find out what they think?" It was the first thing Tinkie had said in ten minutes.

"They won't talk to me."

"Since when did that stop you?"

"Got it." I ambled down the hallway, setting up position outside the swinging door that led to ICU. This was the only exit from the isolation ward.

Sure enough, less than a minute later, the door opened and the three men emerged. Doc saw me and paused. "Sarah Booth, this is Dr. Franklin and Dr. Formicello. They're here from the World Health Organization. I was hoping they might have seen something like this."

Both men were nearing fifty, and their faces showed lives lived out of doors. I glanced between them, picking up on the tension.

"We don't have any answers," Dr. Franklin said. "To be honest, I've never seen an illness like this."

"Nor I," Formicello agreed. "I hope this is truly contained."

"Can you guess as to whether it's bacterial or viral?" I asked. From the little I knew about medicine, it would make a tremendous difference. Bacterial would respond to antibiotics. Viral--probably not. So far, though Doc had tried at least four major types of antibiotics on the patients, none had shown improvement. Lab cultures had come back inconclusive.

They shared a look. "We don't know," Franklin said.

"Do the sores indicate some kind of contact with a poison?"

Again, they looked at each other and Doc. "Miss Delaney, we simply can't, and won't, speculate."

"Oscar's wife is near emotional and physical collapse. Don't you have anything you can tell her? Any tiny word of hope."

"The longer the patients survive, the better the odds. Mr. Richmond has been here for four days. He's survived
the high temperatures and the buildup of fluid around his heart and lungs--take that as a positive sign. In fact, all the patients have good health and physical strength on their sides. Older patients would be dead by now."

That wasn't exactly the glad tidings I wanted to take to Tinkie, but it was better than a death sentence.

When I reported back in, she handed me the half-eaten container of food.

"Will you take me home for a little while?"

She was so tired, she sounded drunk. "Sure. I'll come back and stay with Oscar."

"Mother's coming. I told her you'd take me home."

I sat on the edge of the cot beside her and put my arm around her. "He's going to pull through this."

"Why can't they figure it out?" she asked. "They've run tests for four days."

"I don't know." I told her about my conversation with Peyton, the genetically altered cotton, and the strange boll weevils he'd discovered in the fields.

"Do you think the gods are punishing Sunflower County?" she asked.

"Like biblical plagues?" I was astounded. Tinkie was the voice of reason, the optimist, the one who championed true love and goodness. Here she was talking Armageddon of biblical proportions, all focused on Sunflower County.

"Insects, disease, a shift in the climate." She looked at me. "I'm worried."

"Me too, but not about End Times. I'm not buying that stuff, Tink. There have been predictions about the end of the world from the Dark Ages on. People used to believe an eclipse was a sign of Armageddon. We'll figure this out. You have to believe that."

Her smile was weary but amused. "You're a good friend."

"You're a better friend."

Her smile widened. "You're the best friend."

"You're the bestest friend." I lifted her to her feet. "I'll track down Jimmy Janks, a developer who showed some interest in the Carlisle land. Might be illuminating to dig around in his background, especially in light of the fact that Erin Carlisle says she won't sell the land to be developed."

Tinkie's eyes lit. "If the land is overrun with weevils, and the crop is ruined, and there's talk that the place has some kind of agricultural problems, then no one will lease it to farm and--"

"And Erin might yield and sell to a developer."

"Good thinking, Sarah Booth."

"The problem with that train of thought is if someone thinks the land is diseased, they may not want to build a subdivision on it," I said.

Her expression disagreed. "Some developers build on top of swamps and wetlands and landfills and chemical dumps. A few illnesses and some boll weevils wouldn't stop them. You know they aren't going to tell the home buyers about the history of the land."

"Good point."

Tinkie stretched and stifled a yawn. "Stop by the bank and talk to Harold. He may know Janks. A lot of the developers do business at the bank."

I kissed her forehead. The food had helped her color a little. "Let me get you home. A hot bath, a few hours in your own bed. The world will look better after that."

"Can we pick up Chablis?"

"For you, we can even pick up wandering leprechauns with gnarled toes and knobby canes."

"Sarah Booth, are you on drugs?"

I propelled her down the hall. "I'm mainlining friendship
. For the first time since we got back from Hollywood, I have this sense that things will be okay." I had no idea where the euphoria had come from, or how long it would stay. But for the moment I clung to it. And Tinkie did, too.

She linked her arm through mine. "I think you're unstable, but I need a bit of hope right now."

"You need your pup and some sleep. Let's make that happen."

Jimmy Janks had set up shop in a strip mall on the outskirts of Zinnia. The fake-stucco front was designed to look like the Alamo. For what reason, I couldn't begin to fathom, unless Janks had some Fess Parker/coonskin hat fetish that I didn't want to explore.

The strip mall contained a Tae Kwon Do studio, a smoothie place, the Janks Development Company, and a nail salon. Not a single parking space was occupied when I pulled in. Even though the brutal summer temperatures were still a month away, the black asphalt radiated heat devils. Beyond the borders of the strip mall was a lush field of new corn.

The martial arts studio wasn't open until three, when school students would be available for classes. I'd considered taking up karate but convinced myself it would be smarter to take shooting lessons. Which I needed to
sign up for. I'd promised both Graf and Tinkie I would become proficient with a weapon. Something else on my to-do list.

I entered Janks's office and was greeted by a pretty receptionist who took me straight back to see "the man."

Jimmy Janks, wearing khakis, a button-down shirt, deck shoes, and a diamond Rolex, came from money somewhere up the line. His posture, his boyish haircut, his manicured nails, and perfect smile told me a lot about his background.

"Ms. Delaney," he said, extending a hand. "I've heard all about your exploits in Hollywood. Are you selling your family plantation? It would be a perfect location for--"

"Dahlia House isn't for sale," I said with a cold edge that froze him in mid-sentence.

"So many of the older land parcels are on the market, I just assumed . . . well, farming is becoming too expensive. Folks want to sell off the land and get out of a business that relies on the vagaries of weather."