Smarty Bones (12 page)

“I’m sure you can replace the whole outfit for little or nothing. There’s a Nickle-Mart not far from here.” Tinkie let that bomb roll toward Olive with a smile.

“I hate shopping,” Olive confessed. “It’s such a waste of my valuable time and intellect.”

“Not to mention your fashion sense.” A smile plastered Tinkie’s face.

“Yes, you’re exactly right.” Olive bestowed the warmest smile on my partner. “You understand how valuable my time is. I have moments of sheer brilliance, but those breakthroughs require hours of thinking. To be totally original, one must struggle to find the enlightened path. Mental labor is intensive. I don’t like to waste my energy shopping.”

“Oh, I understand.” Tinkie played right along.

Since I was behind both of them, I took the opportunity to pinch the snot out of Tinkie’s waist. She bolted forward but suppressed a squeal, bumping into Olive, who cast a furious look at my partner.

“Sometimes Tinkie has a flash of brilliance, like just now, and she almost has an out-of-body experience,” I chattered away. “The surge of intellect is so powerful, it’s almost as if she were possessed. I wish I could feel something like that.”

Tinkie’s expression promised retaliation. “Oh, trust me. You will. At the most unexpected time.”

Olive pulled her shoulders back. “You’re so generous, Mrs. Richmond, but you really can’t expect someone with an ordinary mind to feel what you feel. There are those of us who have quality of mind, but the majority of the population simply doesn’t.”

“Yes, we elite few can only pity the fools who suffer in mental darkness.” Tinkie heaved a big sigh.

I’d had enough. “Since you can’t dig up any dead people today, what’s on our agenda? Maybe Tink and I could deposit our retainer?”

“Oh, dear, I forgot the check.” Olive almost fanned herself. “Let’s head back to The Gardens for it and to prepare my legal plea on the exhumation. This pleading is vitally important. I’m sure I’ll get my way. These dolts have simply set me back a few days, but they haven’t foiled me.”

I didn’t like her persistence or optimism. “Surely there are other projects. Why not research Leland Stanford’s or J. P. Morgan’s railroad schemes. There’s bound to be plenty to write about there.”

“Of course there are numerous historical events to excavate. Unfortunately, Sheriff Peters informed me I can’t leave the area. Even if I wanted to abandon this project and move on to something that doesn’t remind me so much of the loss of my research assistant, I can’t. I’m stuck here. So I might as well work.”

“I could put in a word with the sheriff for you,” I offered.

“No thanks. I’ll put a few words on Coleman Peters all by myself.” She simpered, and her chest emitted the strangest little trill. “He’s one burning hunk of man.”

Tinkie grinned over her shoulder. “He is a fine example of man flesh, and he’s single.”

I’d kill her as soon as I got her alone. “But he supports his ex-wife, a nutcase who tries to kill all of his girlfriends.”

“Another chapter for my book,” Olive said. “That’s why I love the South. Such eccentrics. It’s like Faulkner’s characters are hiding under every rock around here.”

“You cannot put anything about Mrs. Peters in a book,” I blurted.

“Of course not.” She gave me a withering look. “I’ll use it in the romance novel I’m writing. With my active brain and linguistic abilities, I should be able to pen a bestseller in a matter of weeks.”

“Yeah,” Tinkie agreed. “Simple as pie.”

“But don’t you have to be able to convey human emotions to write a successful romance?” I asked.

She missed the point completely. “Emotion schmotion,” she said. “I want to convey far more than just the ordinary ‘he loves her, she loves him.’ I want to write about destiny. In my novel, Ian and Enya are fated to share the most intense love imaginable. At first she hates him, and he must teach her obedience. Then, of course, there’s a war. She thinks she’s in love with this simpering Englishman who only wants to destroy her clan. In the end, Ian spanks some sense into her and they live happily ever after. A good spanking really spices up the love scenes, don’t you think?”

Tinkie rolled her eyes. “Fascinating. What do you call it?”

“
Gone with the Heather
. It all takes place on the western moors. The story starts at the beginning of the heather blooming season, which is August, and ends when a big storm sweeps through and fog blocks out the view of the heather. Enya realizes Ian is the man for her, but she can’t find her way to him in the fog.”

“This sounds vaguely familiar,” I said.

“If I find out someone has plagiarized my story, I’ll sue.” Twist squared her shoulders. “Brilliance is often stolen.”

“No doubt,” Tinkie said. “No doubt.”

6

When I returned to Dahlia House, Graf was out jogging. I knew his route so I saddled up Reveler and Lucifer. Miss Scrapiron, the lady of my herd, could have the day off. With Sweetie at my side, I took off along the trail Graf had taken. I rode Reveler and ponied Lucifer. Lucky for me the two geldings had bonded.

The heat was almost intolerable, so I walked the horses. My favorite ride took me around the edges of the cotton fields and along the banks of a small creek, shaded by scrub oaks, cypress, and willows. Coker Creek, named for Jitty’s husband, wound through the property of Dahlia House and then back into acres and acres of cotton and corn.

Delta farmers long ago learned the value of windbreaks, and so the trees along creeks and waterways were spared from the ax. A good thing for me and the horses on a scorching day.

As we ambled along, I noted evidence of Graf’s passing. His footprints were sporadically embedded in the creek bank or in a damp spot beneath the overhanging tree limbs.

My heart was troubled by the web that Twist had thrown over my friends. While I didn’t believe Oscar had done anything wrong, I was worried that he’d shut Tinkie out. I knew from experience such behavior could destroy even the best relationship.

I arrived at a straight stretch and put Reveler into a gentle, ground-covering canter. Ten minutes later, I spotted the familiar figure of my man jogging. He must have heard the pounding of horse hooves and stopped, hands on his thighs, to catch his breath.

“Why, Sarah Booth Delaney, you are a sight sent by the angels,” he said when I drew abreast. He took Lucifer’s reins. “Thank goodness you brought me someone to ride home. This heat is a killer. The climate in California is far more hospitable.”

“Live long enough and we’ll have California’s climate right here in Sunflower County, thanks to global warming. If we aren’t underwater.” I tossed him a pair of sweatpants. Riding in gym shorts was not a great idea for man or woman.

“Thanks!” He slipped into them and mounted Lucifer and I passed him the bottled water I’d packed. “You are a goddess. Anything new to report on the case?”

“Nothing solid.”

We eased the horses into a walk and made for the nearest shade. “Why would anyone kill Boswell?” Graf asked. “Did he even have a life? I mean, he slept on the floor beside Twist’s bed.”

“I’m beginning to suspect there was more to Boswell than the shadow servant he presented to everyone.” Webber had painted a different picture of the assistant. There was also the note to Oscar indicating Boswell would sell out Olive to the highest bidder.

“What happened in Lexington?”

“The exhumation was stalled, but there was an angry crowd. Buford and Jeremiah were arrested for hitting Olive with rotten tomatoes. I’d expect that conduct from Buford, but Jeremiah was also so … classy. I mean, he’s an ass because of the way he treated Cece, but he was dignified. I guess Aunt Loulane would say, ‘If you lay down with dogs, you get up with fleas.’”

His laughter rang over the fields. I realized with a catch in my heart how much I loved him. He was born to be a movie star, and it scared me. At one time I’d wished nothing more than to be successful as an actor. Life had changed me and my ambitions. Coming home in desperation after my failed Broadway career, I’d learned Dorothy’s lesson. There’s no place like home. Could I reasonably expect Graf to be happy with a woman who lived in Mississippi while he traveled the world making films? I knew only too well how many women would devote themselves totally to fulfilling his every whim or desire.

“You’re too serious for your own good,” Graf said.

“Just thinking about the case.” I would not burden him with my own insecurities. “How did your business talks go?”

“They’ve offered me the voice-over job. I need to leave soon for Hollywood. I’ll be there a week and can come back after I finish. I can stay in Mississippi a while before the next shoot starts.”

I forced a wide smile. “I’m thrilled for you. And you are the perfect person. Kudos to the studio for seeing your talent.”

“I wish you could come with me.” He wasn’t pressuring me, just expressing his wishes.

“Let’s see what tomorrow brings. This whole case may have blown over by then.”

“Wishful thinking, Sarah Booth. But I thank you for the thought. And I accept your work is as important to you as my acting is to me. We’ll navigate around our schedules. Plenty of people do it, and they don’t love each other half as much as we do.” A devilish glint gave me warning. “How about a trot?”

“I think the horses would love a trot.”

Neck and neck, we made our way back around the cotton fields to the cool shade of the barn. We hosed the horses and put them in a pasture. They both rolled, aligning their backs in what passed for horsey chiropractic maneuvers. “I’ll make us a drink,” I said.

“Let me run a little oil over the tack and I’ll be right in,” Graf said.

I’d turned the corner to the house when Coleman pulled up to the front. His expression boded trouble. “Coleman’s here,” I called to Graf.

By the time Coleman got out of the patrol car and stood beside me at the steps, Graf had joined us.

“Sarah Booth, Graf,” the sheriff greeted us. “I just got Doc’s autopsy report. Boswell was definitely poisoned. We found the source—Olive’s gourmet coffee beans. The poison was mixed into the whole beans. When they were ground and used to brew the coffee—it was more than a lethal dose. We have a homicide on our hands and a dangerous killer on the loose.”

“Have you arrested anyone?” I asked.

“The evidence against Twist is circumstantial at best, but she did have motive. I understand Boswell was working behind her back, trying to sell her out to Webber and Oscar.”

I couldn’t deny that. Nor did I want to. “Olive’s mean as a snake. Why would she expect loyalty—the way she treated Boswell.”

“Speaking of Twist, she’s looking for you and Tinkie. I thought I’d give you a heads-up. I’m not certain I believe she did it, Sarah Booth. It’s possible she’s being set up, but she has it in her head that she needs her own investigators. Forces paid to serve her self-interest, as she put it.”

“If Twist isn’t the murderer, then she’s likely the intended victim,” I noted. “I find it a lot easier to believe she was the target, not Boswell.”

“I agree,” Graf said. “She’s the instigator. Boswell was just a bit player.”

“We found fingerprints on the coffee bag. Twist, Boswell, Gertrude, the cleaning staff, and unidentified prints that may belong to the stock boys at the specialty coffee-house. We’re checking on it. We’re also comparing the prints with Buford’s and Jeremiah’s, once Sheriff Peeples uploads and sends them over.”

“Are those two smart enough to use a poison?” I asked. “The way they’ve been behaving lately, I think they’re back to about second-grade intelligence.”

Coleman frowned. “Don’t underestimate them, Sarah Booth. Both men were brilliant in their day. And Buford has several degrees in finance. He knows how to make money if he wants to. I’m checking Boswell’s background. The tip you gave me has merit. Boswell had archived extensive footage of Twist that he’d surreptitiously taped. She comes across as a tyrant, bully, and complete ass. I don’t envy DeWayne the job of going through it, but that’s what he’s doing.”

Better Deputy Dattilo than me, I thought. “What about the Heritage Heroes or whoever they are?”

Coleman’s frown deepened. “A bunch of peckerhead haters is one thing. A bunch of haters with plush bank accounts is something else. From what I’m hearing, Buford and Jeremiah are revered by the group. I’ve gotten reports those guys are dedicated survivalists. They’ve kept a low profile in Sunflower County, but I’ve got my ear to the ground. There’s something here that disturbs me. I don’t like covert organizations, and especially those that cloak themselves in patriotism and the glory of the past. Sometimes that’s just a cover for racism or misogyny or greed. They can be very dangerous, and my sources tell me these guys are armed.”

“I had the impression they were just a bunch of bigots strutting around, talking foolishness,” Graf said. “It’s frightening to think they actually have weapons and ammunition.”

“Most of these good ole boys want to blame someone for a bad economy or a wife who took a runner. They like to drink and shoot off their mouths. They kill animals that can’t shoot back, and they re-tell stories of the past when things were ‘good.’ Twist is messing with what they view as their sacred heritage. Some of them have serious brain deficits, and I worry they’ll do something rash. Now it looks like they’ve found leaders willing to show them the way. Jeremiah and Buford can create real problems. Particularly Jeremiah. He’s painted himself as a symbol of the fallen South. A man betrayed by his brother. Sort of the worst of the dead South. The Falcon inheritance was substantial. Big enough to cause serious problems.”

I saw his point. Money could buy a lot of trouble in the wrong hands. “This seems a little sophisticated for a bunch of yahoos.”

“Jeremiah went to Harvard. Buford has a doctorate. They aren’t stupid, but they’ve chosen a life of stupidity.”

“What about Richard Webber?” I was curious how Coleman read the Ole Miss professor.

“I don’t normally view academics as killers.” Coleman wiped sweat from his forehead. The heat was leeching the life out of us. “But the jealousy and ill-will between Webber and Twist is pretty epic. If he was sure he wouldn’t get caught killing her, he might be tempted to try.”