Jingle Bones (2 page)

“Thanks. Carry on with the rehearsal, please.” I left them to it and sauntered forward to share the new case with my partner. Tinkie wouldn't be thrilled, but she was pragmatic enough to know cash in the hand was a great incentive.

I was halfway to the office when I heard,
“Pssssst!”

Jitty, in the cutest elf suit I'd ever seen, accosted me. She was the only person I knew who could make green fishnet hose look sexy. “Already dressed for the holidays?” I teased her.

“This house is so full of your friends I can't find a minute to tell you somethin'.”

“Just think how it would be if I had children.” Jitty was forever gigging me to get married and spawn. She wanted an heir to haunt and so far, I was the last of the Delaneys.

“If it was
my
young'uns, it wouldn't bother me a lick.”

What was mine was Jitty's and what was Jitty's was Jitty's. Waste of breath to point that out. “What do you have to tell me?”

“Don't tie yourself up with Theodora Prince. That woman's got a bad Christmas mojo.”

“Very helpful, Jitty. You should have flown across the porch and scared her away before she assaulted me with this big chunk o' change that is going to keep me in cranberries and Jack Daniel's.”

“She's messed up in the head, Sarah Booth. Your mama once quit the PTA because of Theodora whining about the dress lengths of the teenage girls. It was a regular Harper Valley moment.”

Jitty referred to an older country song by Jeannie C. Riley where a local mother goes off on the hypocrites in a small town. My mom was known to be a firebrand when it came to injustice, hypocrisy, or cruelty. “Okay, she's an unpleasant woman.” I pulled out the cash and flashed it at Jitty. “But this will keep the lights on at Dahlia House. And it's an easy case that doesn't involve murder or guns or death.”

“What does it involve?” Jitty's grin told me she already knew.

“Finding the person who stole the baby Jesus from the crèche at Final Harvest Church last year.”

“Your case is a missing doll?”

I refused to dignify her sarcasm with an answer. “It's a case. It's a diversion for me.” I shooed her away. “Take a powder. I have work to do.”

In front of my very eyes, she vanished. And Tinkie Bellcase Richmond, my partner, yahooed to me. “Sarah Booth, who are you talking to?”

“Myself,” I answered. “Some days I need to have an intelligent conversation.”

Tinkie came down the hallway, her high heels tapping. She was only five-two, and she could run faster in five-inch stilettos than I could in my PF Flyers. Tinkie was a woman of many talents and excellent taste in accessories. Today she wore umber corduroy slacks, a forest green sweater, and a scarf of fall colors. Even her tawny hair matched, as did her wonderful little dog, Chablis.

The Yorkie launched herself full tilt, trusting that I would catch her in my arms. Of course, I did. Chablis and I had a long history of learning to trust each other. The chatter brought Sweetie Pie, my hound, out of the kitchen, and Pluto, my huge black cat, from his nap on the horsehair sofa in the front parlor.

Tinkie put her hands on her hips. “One day, Sarah Booth, you'll quit lying to me about the phantom you chitchat with.”

A change of subject was overdue. “We have a new client. Theodora Prince.” Instead of waiting for her to pick up her jaw and ask, I filled her in on our case.

“We are actually going to track down that ratty doll that was in the crèche last year? Did you see it? It looked like an escapee from a doll mental institution. Someone had pulled most of the hair out of its ugly little head and one glassy blue eye was cockeyed. I ask again, did you see that repugnant thing?”

I had to tread lightly. Tinkie was righteously upset. “Can't say that I did. Doesn't matter. We've been hired to find the people or persons who stole it. What desperate momma is rocking that little ugly doll?”

“Stop it! You are mocking me.”

“Only a little.” I couldn't stop the grin as I pulled out the money. “Paid in advance. The only answer she'll be happy with is the Rush boys. And they are a handful.”

“Theodora doesn't part with money easily.” She rolled her eyes. “Did I mention that she'd squeeze a penny until old Abe yelled? This must be really important to her.”

“This is”— I counted through the bills—“five grand. Now where does a church lady come up with that kind of cash? To find a baby-doll thief?”

“Make sure it isn't counterfeit.”

“Let's go pay a visit to the Rush family.” The Case of the Baby-doll Thief was growing on me.

“I'm staying in the car,” Tinkie warned. “This could wait until tomorrow, you know. Cece and Jaytee are decorating your parlor.”

“I brought a sack of cedar boughs to them. They're making popcorn-and-cranberry strings. They're happy as pigs in mud. They have liquor and that wonderful chicken salad Millie made. And they have each other.”

“I should have a drink before we go. You do know the Rush family, don't you? Remember the year those boys set the Santa float on fire? The boys said if he came down the chimney he should be fire retardant. Or the time they stole Mayor Havard's brand-new Dodge Ram dually and drove it into the Sunflower River? To see if it would float. They were only eight years old and knew how to drive.”

The Rush boys were notorious. The family had plenty of money and therefore the kids had never been punished for their misconduct. With each year, their pranks escalated. Now the boys were in fifth grade. I doubted their mother could control them even if she'd had a belated motherly instinct to instill some self-discipline.

Tinkie tossed me the keys to her Cadillac. “You drive. I intend to drink. Heavily.”

She picked up a bottle of Stoli, a jar of olives, and the ice bucket on her way out the door.

Who was I to argue with Tinkie Bellcase Richmond, queen bee socialite of Zinnia, Mississippi.

*   *   *

The soft December night spangled stars across the sky. A waxing moon illuminated the white shell drive as the car crunched toward the road, “Joy to the World” playing softly on the radio. Sweetie Pie and Chablis were in the backseat. They loved the cold. The night beyond the headlights of the car was a rich black. Not a streetlight or any other form of human habitation polluted the perfection.

Tinkie mixed a martini or, more accurately, straight vodka on the rocks with olives, and kicked back in the passenger seat. “You know those boys will never give up the baby doll.” She swigged her drink. “I can't think what they may have done with it. Remember when they stole Frances Roberts's lacy bra-and-panty sets and ran them up the flagpole at the high school? That was her first year teaching. It almost broke her spirit, and those naughty high schoolers wolf whistled at her the rest of the year.”

“We don't want that wretched baby doll back. We want a confession so Theodora can boost them from the Christmas pageant.”

“They came out of the womb wicked and cunning. And good luck with a confession. Those boys are professional criminals. They'll never own up to anything.”

She was probably right, but we'd taken the case and now we had to try.

The Rush family lived in a high-end subdivision that had once been a beautiful pecan orchard. Mr. Rush, the developer, had bulldozed every single tree. That told me a lot about family sensibilities. The house had to be eight thousand square feet, and when we pulled up in the driveway, a young boy watched us from an upstairs window. He had red hair and the wily eyes of a fox. Maybe it was a good thing Tinkie preferred to watch the car.

The doorbell chimed and the heavy door opened quietly. Marjorie Rush looked annoyed. Her beautiful red hair offset a rare alabaster complexion. She came from money and she'd married more.

“Sarah Booth, what brings you here?” she drawled. “Collecting for world peace or some other pie-in-the-sky scheme?”

We'd gone to high school together but never traveled in the same clique. Marjorie had been head majorette, leader of the jazz dance team, Miss Sunflower County High beauty queen, and president of at least six school organizations. At Ole Miss, she zoomed straight to the top of Delta Delta Delta sorority and was the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi four years in a row.

“I'm in the middle of something important. What do you want?” She inched the door nearly shut.

“I need to talk to Heathcliff and Lord Darcy.” Not Darcy.
Lord
Darcy. I patted myself on the back for saying the names without laughing.

“About what?”

“The Final Harvest crèche.”

“They had nothing to do with the theft of the baby Jesus.”

Defensive, some? “Could I speak with the boys?”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“Marjorie, I'm a private investigator. I don't use search warrants. I just want to ask them what they know, if anything.”

She put a hand on the edge of the door, opening it a little wider, and cocked a hip. “Why my boys?”

“They're boys. This was a prank. They may know something about who did it.”

“Hogwash.” She turned from the door and screamed, “Heathcliff, Lord Darcy, get down here.”

I considered the possibility that if someone had given me such ridiculous names, I might have become a serial killer. The boys tumbled down the stairs, punching and trying to trip each other. The fact that neither of them was a paraplegic or dead testified to their toughness. At the bottom of the stairs, Heathcliff, a handsome boy with black hair and dark eyes, stuck a foot into Lord Darcy's legs and they both tumbled and rolled to a halt at the door.

“Boys, Miss Delaney wants to ask you some questions. Watch her. Her fiancé dumped her for a blonde and she may be a bit on the snarky side. Be courteous unless she acts rude first.”

Ignoring Marjorie was the best route open to me, for the moment. When this case was done, I'd drive to New Orleans and see about buying a voodoo curse. “Boys, do you know anything about the theft of a baby doll from the Final Harvest crèche last year?”

“Us?” Heathcliff, the older by three minutes, looked suitably shocked at such a suggestion. “Why would we take a doll?”

“We're not into playing house,” Lord Darcy said. “Dolls are for sissies. Why do you even care?”

“I don't. But someone does, and I've been hired to find out who did it. Ever hear any talk at school about the prank?”

“Everyone was shocked. Downright appalled.” Lord Darcy could barely contain his amusement. “I mean, who would want that scabby-looking doll.” He crossed his eyes in imitation of the doll's disfigurement.

The boys knew exactly what had happened to the doll, and they were so full of themselves they didn't even try to hide it.

“My boys wouldn't touch a doll,” Marjorie insisted. “Now why don't you jump in your car and drive on out of here. Oh, and you can tell Theodora that she's not going to put my boys out of the pageant no matter what she tries. Now beat it.”

I was more than happy to oblige. There was nothing else I could accomplish—I had warned Theodora that it was futile to take this on—and I wanted a drink and the rousing company of my friends. We had garlands to make and fruitcakes to bake.

*   *   *

I awoke to the sound of “Jingle Bell Rock,” and I had to admit, Jitty sounded exactly like Brenda Lee. Before I realized it, my toes were tapping. Joining in on the chorus, I jumped out of bed and hurried down to the kitchen to make coffee. The smell of cedar filled Dahlia House, and a million wonderful memories of childhood teased me. If I closed my eyes, I could visualize my parents decorating a tall cedar tree in the parlor, singing and laughing. They had made each holiday special and fun.

This day wasn't earmarked for old memories, though. It was time to make new ones. As I sipped my coffee I chopped pecans for bourbon balls, divinity, date loaf, and other Christmas goodies. I was going to bake the day away.

“Jitty?” I called out for my haint. I wanted to sing “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree,” but I needed Jitty's excellent vocal chords. I was a little on the froggy side.

“Jitty?”

Wherever she'd gone, she wasn't answering my summons to a singathon. It was just like her to be ornery and bossy. No matter, I could sing on my own.

When the phone rang, I was surprised to see Coleman Peters, the sheriff of Sunflower County, on caller I.D. “Happy holidays,” I greeted him.

“Sarah Booth, DeWayne and I are out on the road. Your horses are on the right of way and I'm not having a lot of luck catching them.”

“My horses?” My gates were securely locked. How had they gotten out? But technicalities didn't matter. “I'm on the way.”

I pulled a coat and boots on over my flannel Betty Boop pj's and headed to the barn. With halters, ropes, and a bucket of feed, Sweetie Pie and I tore down the driveway in my car and immediately saw two patrol cars, lights flashing, blocking traffic while Reveler, Miss Scrapiron, and Lucifer leaped back and forth over the ditch, toying with Coleman and his deputy, DeWayne Dattilo.

One rattle of the feed bucket—and a little help from my herding hound—and I had all three horses haltered and in hand. “I don't know how they got out of the pasture, but I'll sure find out.”

“It won't take much sleuthing.” Coleman pointed to the wooden fence where several sections had been knocked down. “That was done deliberately, Sarah Booth. Someone turned your horses out on the road.”

Once the angry knot in my throat passed, I could talk. “It's the Rush boys. I went over there yesterday to question them about the stolen baby doll from the church crèche last year. This is retaliation.”

“Those boys belong in a juvenile offender facility. The problem is their mama has bought them out of all the trouble they get into. They have no respect for anyone, least of all her.”