Rock-a-Bye Bones (5 page)

Harold's trust in me was never to be taken lightly. “Thank you, and I would be honored to play Wonder Woman.”

“I can visualize you in that delightfully skimpy costume with your golden lariat of truth. You could, maybe, lasso me and tie me up.”

Harold was taking this way over the top. “Uh, we'll see.”

“It's a small request, Sarah Booth.” He sounded slightly hurt.

“I'm not really into role-playing like that, but maybe for next Halloween.”

“I'll hold you to that promise. And just so you know, I called Coleman, who got a warrant for the records.” His baritone laugh rang through the phone. He'd snared me, hook, line, and sinker.

“Well played,” I said. “And just so
you
know, when I see you, I'm going to hurt you.”

*   *   *

To my surprise, Oscar was at Hilltop. His new silver Infiniti was parked at the steps, and when I let myself in the front door, I heard him in the kitchen with Tinkie.

“What does little Libby want? Tell Uncle Oscar.”

I stopped in my tracks. Oscar was speaking in baby tongues.

“Isn't she a doll? Tinkie asked. “Oh, Oscar, having her here is like a gift from God. I can't imagine life without her.”

I called out as I entered. “I'm in the house!”

“Come on in,” they chorused.

To my amusement, I found Oscar with a towel on his shoulder and the baby in his arms. From a naked newborn, little Libby had turned into a seven-pound fashion plate. She wore a perfectly coordinated pink polka-dot onesie and a headband sporting a huge peony and little pink glitter booties. The outfit was a bit saggy because it was too big, but Libby made it work.

Oscar, on the other hand, was festooned with a huge splotch of baby upchuck on the front of his very expensive suit. A clot of something I didn't want to identify was in his hair. “Looks like the baby has won you over,” I said.

“Look at that red hair,” Oscar said. “She's a ginger. My grandmother was red-haired.”

Both of them were baby gob-smacked. “She's cute,” I agreed. I'd hoped to get Tinkie to go with me to run down the possible address of the baby's mother when Coleman called it in to me, but I could see Tinkie wasn't going to part with the child. I'd have to work this lead on my own.

“Any news on the mother?” Tinkie's tone was carefully cool.

“Maybe a lead. Waiting to hear from Coleman. Want to go with me when I do?”

“I'd better stay with Libby. Oscar is wonderful with her, but she needs a mother's touch.”

If Oscar heard any alarm bells, he didn't show it. He was as smitten as his wife. “Just remember, you two, this baby has to be returned to the birth mother. Don't get too attached.”

“Of course not,” Oscar said. “This is temporary. But while she's here…” He grabbed a fresh bottle. “We're going to take care of her.”

My cell phone rang and Coleman was on the line with an address for the young woman born with an extra digit. The location was on Fodder Gin Road just across the county line in Bolivar County. “I have no jurisdiction there,” he said, the warning to behave and stay out of trouble implicit.

“Got it.” I wanted to talk to him about Tinkie and Oscar, but if I did, he might send child services for the baby immediately. It was best to find the baby's mother as quickly as possible. “I'll call you when I've run down the lead.”

“You'd better,” Coleman said. “And Sarah Booth, I hate to have to tell you this, but you should know.”

Immediately I felt my gut clench. “Know what?”

“Gertrude Strom, or a woman matching her description, was seen on Highway 1 north of Vicksburg headed this way.”

Gertrude, the former owner of The Gardens B&B, had been charged with murder and was awaiting trial when a numbskull judge had lowered her bail. She'd jumped and run. For reasons I couldn't fathom, Gertrude hated my guts. She'd shot my fiancé in the leg and almost crippled him—ultimately resulting in the breakup of our relationship. I couldn't figure why she hated me, but I had plenty of reason to hate her. And I was afraid of her.
Irrational
didn't begin to describe her.

“So the authorities are on the alert, right?”

“They are, but you're headed over to Bolivar County, and Highway 1 goes through it. Just be aware and stay safe. If you see her, don't try to confront her.”

The highway ran along the Mississippi River. The idea of running into Gertrude made my jaw tighten. She wouldn't get a second chance to hurt me. “Thanks for the heads up.”

“Caution, Sarah Booth. If you see her, call the authorities. The highway patrol is putting up roadblocks. They should run her to ground. You let them take care of this.”

They should have put up roadblocks days ago. Mississippi law enforcement ran at a total budgetary deficit. There was never money for personnel or equipment. “I'll be careful.” And I would also stop by Dahlia House and pick up my gun. Gertrude looked like an older woman who might be featured in a British comedy, but she was no laughing matter. While I didn't intend to push a confrontation, I would be ready to take action if she forced the issue.

*   *   *

Fodder Gin Road was a rutted dirt track off Highway 12 that took me west toward the Mississippi River. There was little chance of running into Gertrude Strom on the pig-trail that served as access to a trailer community right out of the 1960s.

The mobile homes were parked on a treeless plot that wasn't so bad in November, but in the summer sun, they would be broiling. Litter blew across the road, and in the distance I saw several children playing on a lone swing set. As I drew closer, a little boy waved a stick at me, but his expression was friendly, not aggressive. When the car stopped, children surrounded me. Candy might not be good for children, but I wished I'd had the foresight to buy some chocolate treats.

A young girl with dark auburn hair sat on a broken bench strumming a guitar. When the children quieted, I could hear the stirring ballad she sang about lost love. It wasn't a song from the radio that I'd ever heard, but it was powerful.

“I'm looking for—” How could I explain my mission to children too young to be in school?

“Give her some room,” the guitarist said as she came over, holding the twelve-string with her right hand. On the outside of the hand was a tiny little extra digit.

“I'm looking for Pleasant Smith,” I said to her.

“So am I,” she said bluntly. “I'm her sister, Faith. What do you want with her?”

I didn't want to go into the whole baby situation, so I took another tack. “I'm concerned for her. Do you have any idea where she might be?”

“You'd best talk to Mama,” Faith said. “We've been looking for Pleasant for better than a month. Can't find hide nor hair of her. The only consolation is we haven't found a body, either.”

Her total lack of emotion made me wonder if she was serious or playing me. “You think she's dead?”

“You'd better talk to Mama. I shouldn't be speaking out of school.” She pointed to one of the trailers. “She's in there. I gotta watch these young'uns. It's my day and if I don't keep an eye on them no telling what trouble they'll get into.”

The kids had scattered, and for urchins on twenty-four-inch legs, they were quick to disperse.

“One more thing. That song, I've never heard it before, but it was lovely.”

“Pleasant wrote it. She was gonna be a big singer-songwriter in Nashville before she went missing.”

Her eyes were dry, but I could see she was hurting. “I'm trying to find your sister. I want to help her.”

“I hope you do. Like I said, talk to Mama. She'll tell you what she can.”

“Is the sheriff looking for your sister?”

Faith snorted. “Right. We called and told them when she didn't come home, and they said she was just another kid sick of rural Mississippi who took off for greener pastures.”

Bolivar County wasn't Coleman's terrain and anger heated my cheeks at the blasé attitude toward a missing girl who was obviously pregnant when she'd disappeared. Faith had her hands full supervising the kids, so I went in the direction she'd indicated and climbed the metal steps to the trailer door.

My knock was answered immediately by a thin woman in a sea-blue top that matched her eyes. Though a little faded, her red hair told me I was likely in the right place. “I'm trying to find Pleasant Smith,” I said.

“Who are you and why are you looking for Pleasant?” she asked.

“I'm a … friend. I want to help.”

Her response was an instant outburst of tears. “Have you heard something from her? I'm out of my mind with worry. Pleasant's been missing for more than four weeks. She went to the store to get some milk, and she never came back. Her abandoned car was found on the side of the road, broken down.” She wiped the tears from her face.

From a room behind her the squall of an unhappy child came to us.

“I have to see about my sister's baby girl. I'm keeping her so Fidelity can work,” she said, motioning me to follow. “I'll put on a pot of coffee and you can tell me why you're hunting Pleasant.”

I followed, mentally trying to figure out the best way to tell this woman that her daughter might be in serious trouble. It wasn't going to be an easy conversation.

When the coffee was brewed and the toddler was quieted, Charity Smith sat down at the Formica table with me and two cups of hot coffee.

I wanted to tell her the complete truth of why I was there. She deserved to know that her granddaughter was alive and well—but first I had to be certain Libby was her grandchild. Charity seemed torn up by Pleasant's disappearance, but I didn't know her role in the events that had ended with a baby and a pool of blood on my front porch. “Mrs. Smith, I'm a private investigator.” I showed her my badge. “I've been hired to find Pleasant.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Let me just say that finding your daughter would benefit my client.”

The toddler sat in the middle of the floor beating an assortment of plastic containers together and squealing with delight at the noise. She looked up at me with blue eyes as clear as her aunt's. I wondered if little Libby would have the same startling eye color. “She's a beautiful baby. What's her name?”

Her eyes filled again, but she checked her emotions back. “That's baby Sapphire, my younger sister's girl. Pleasant was pregnant when she disappeared.” She said the last with some bitterness as she rubbed her forehead. “Pleasant had everything in the world going for her. She was going to escape. Then she showed up pregnant and refused to tell anyone who the father was. She should have had the baby by now. If she's alive.” A lump moved down her throat, but she clung to her stoicism. “That young man that stopped by here yesterday looking for her was worried about her and the baby, too.”

“What young man?”

She shook her head. “Some musician. Said he was friends with Pleasant. She was supposed to perform with him, he said.”

“But you didn't know him?” The danger seemed obvious to me, but Charity didn't see it.

“Pleasant had a lot of friends, and this boy was so solicitous about the baby. He was worried when I told him Pleasant had been missing for four weeks.”

“Did you get his name?” I asked.

She frowned. “He said his name, but I didn't write it down. Nice young man in a black pickup. He really seemed worried about my girl.” Her face brightened. “I didn't write his name down but he said he gave Pleasant a ride down to Delta State University when she applied for her scholarships. Her car wouldn't run, so it was a godsend when she was able to catch a ride.” She went to a kitchen drawer and began riffling papers. “Here it is. She left a note. ‘Mom, Luther is giving me a ride to DSU. Back by five.'”

“Do you know this young man?”

“He played drums in a little band. He was very concerned about Pleasant.”

Charity was a trusting person. She'd allowed me into her home without question. When a young man came asking about her daughter, she assumed it was out of concern.

“If he comes back, you need to call me right away.” I held up my hand to stop her protestations that he was a good boy. “He may know something to help. If I'm going to find her, I need some leads.”

“What can I do?”

“Do you have a photograph of Pleasant?” This would go a long way.

She went to a shelf in the den and brought back a high school photo. She took it out of the frame and handed it to me.

“I'll give this to the sheriff's department.” But first I snapped a picture with my phone. I'd prepared a list of questions, and I didn't hesitate. “If Pleasant ran away, where would she go?”

“She didn't run away. She had everything ahead of her. She was a top contender for a scholarship to Delta State University in the music department, there was interest about her songs in Nashville, she made good grades at the high school even though she has to miss a lot of days. Faith, Pleasant, and a few older teenage girls take turns watching the children around here so their mothers can work.”

That was a lot of responsibility for high school girls to shoulder.

Before I could frame another question, Charity continued. “I take in ironing and some catering, when the work is offered. I've done the best I can with no education and no husband. Mine walked off and never came back.” She laughed. “Talk about a jerk. He said he was goin' for cigarettes. He couldn't even be original.”

“Do you have any idea who the father of Pleasant's baby is? She might be with him.”

“I couldn't get a peep out of her. Not a single word. If she had a beau, she was all secretive. I got worried the father was some big shot from Nashville who was filling her head with dreams and was just gonna steal her songs and leave her stranded. I've heard lots of stories how such a thing can happen to a talented young girl.”