Smarty Bones (18 page)

“Could Olive Twist’s hypothesis that she was Lincoln’s lover be true?”

Oscar blew out his breath. “She was wild. And she believed she should be free to make her own choices. She felt the same way about the slaves. She was an outspoken abolitionist at a time when such talk often resulted in death.”

I let these new facts sink in. “Was she murdered?”

“I don’t know. And I’m not certain the woman in the grave is Tilda Richmond, my great-great-great-grandfather’s sister. All I know is that Tilda left Mississippi when she was sixteen. She never came home.”

“She never sent a letter or anything?” That would have been hard on her parents, even if she’d disappointed them. They would have craved to know she was safe.

Oscar contemplated his answer. “Gossip got back to the family. There was talk she had gained President Lincoln’s favor. She would have been in her late twenties, and from the only photograph I saw of her, she was a true beauty. Part of the family legend is that she became a madam in the capital. But that’s as substantial as the Old West stories.”

“Holy shit.” Olive Twist had been striking at the right nail. If she published these revelations, she’d cause a scandal for Oscar and the Richmond family. But only a minor scandal. So, a Richmond had been an abolitionist and slept with Lincoln. Not such a big deal. But if she’d conspired to assassinate Lincoln, that was something else.

“I’ve thought repeatedly of digging up the grave and having a DNA test.” Oscar waited for me to react.

My shock gratified his expectation. “Really? Will you submit a DNA sample to Olive?”

“Absolutely not. It’s one thing to deal with family issues privately. I won’t pander to her need for material for a book. And neither will that moron Buford. I’ve heard she’s offered money if he will and I put a stop to that.”

I didn’t really blame Oscar. Knowing was one thing. Having the world know was something else. “Would Tilda have come back home and gone to Egypt Plantation instead of Zinnia?”

“I can’t say. What was there at Egypt Plantation? Maybe someone who believed in what she was doing. Another abolitionist, or perhaps a lover. I’ve thought perhaps she came on a riverboat from New Orleans, based on the fancy dress she wore.”

“You think it’s Tilda, don’t you?”

“I think there’s a good probability. She was a true beauty, Sarah Booth. There’s a photo of that corpse in the family Bible. Why else would it be there? But I don’t want to give her over to Twist. That woman has no soul. I don’t want Tilda painted as a whore or an abolitionist or a murderess. I want her to rest in peace.”

“What can you do about Buford?”

“I intend to have him committed to a private mental institution. Cece spoke with me about what he and Jeremiah have been up to. I’ve made arrangements at Cold Springs Mental Hospital. I’m paying for both of them, if Cece can get Jeremiah in there to dry out. They need to be locked up before they hurt themselves or someone else. I’m afraid they’ll either sell out to Twist or kill her. They’re both so volatile it could go either way.”

That was a pretty drastic step, but I understood Oscar’s impulses. If they were under medical care, Olive couldn’t work on them and they couldn’t hurt her or anyone else. It wasn’t a bad plan—on the face of it. I didn’t know the legal machinations for getting a relative committed, but I was fairly certain neither Buford nor Jeremiah would go voluntarily. Besides, while Buford tipped the sauce too frequently and too much, I wasn’t certain alcohol was Jeremiah’s issue. I got the sense he had bought into the baseline meanness of the Evergreen Tree group. He did feel superior to women, especially Cece, and so many other elements of society.

My immediate problem was Tinkie and her husband. “You need to tell all of this to Tinkie. She knows something is wrong and she’s worried about you.”

“I will,” he said. “Tonight. When we get home. It’s funny, but I think about this and it happened such a long time ago, none of it should matter now. It’s gone and done. But I can’t let it go. Tinkie deserves to know why I’ve been so preoccupied.”

“One more thing, Oscar. Did you meet with Jimmy Boswell the night before he died?”

He paled but recovered quickly. “Who told you that?”

“Tinkie. She found a note in your pocket. She assumed it was from Boswell. Asking to meet.”

“He slipped the note in my pocket the night of the Molotov cocktail in Twist’s room. I agreed to meet him at a little park on the other side of town. He didn’t have a vehicle, so we picked a place he could walk to. He never showed up. I figured Twist caught on to his scheme and chained him in the room.”

“Or possibly poisoned him.” I really hadn’t taken Olive seriously as a potential killer. Maybe I needed to change my attitude.

I had other questions, and a warning for him to be honest with his wife, but I had no chance to twist his arm, because Tinkie and Graf returned.

Oscar planted a sloppy grin on his face and the evening continued.

9

The morning sun slanted through the bedroom window, chasing the predawn gray into the corners. Consciousness brought a mile-long list of things I needed to do, but Graf was too much temptation to leave all alone in bed. For a few minutes, I watched him sleep. Pluto curled into his chest, his little black kitty paws making biscuits against the dark hair. Sweetie’s soft snores waffled from the floor beside the bed. There was not another thing in the world I needed. I whispered a thank-you for the wonderful life I’d somehow managed to acquire.

I’d lost so many people I loved. Jitty wasn’t the only spirit moving through the hallways of Dahlia House. My parents, Aunt Loulane, a host of Delaney relatives who’d loved this land. While I couldn’t see them and talk to them like I could Jitty, I knew they were never far. But Graf was flesh and bone, a man who stirred my blood just looking at him. How had I ever gotten so lucky?

My finger traced his jaw. The dark shadow of beard gave him a roguish look. He was perfect for the role of a private dick in the movie
Delta Blues.
I wanted the chance to act opposite him, to complete that part of our life.

And I wanted a lot more.

I put my left hand on his shoulder and the morning sun sparked off my beautiful engagement ring. Graf had pushed me to set a wedding date, but I was reluctant to marry at Dahlia House. I didn’t consider myself a morbid person, but holding the ceremony here would only accentuate all the people who weren’t around to bless the union.

Ireland. That’s where I wanted to get hitched. Maybe a nice horseback ride up the western coast and a ceremony in an old church. Something casual with a small group of those close to me. The drawback involved my friends. Not everyone could just drop everything and haul butt to Ireland. So it would have to be a planned trip arranged around schedules and responsibilities.

Sweetie’s cold nose poked my back as if she’d read my thoughts and wanted to say, “Hey, you can’t leave me behind.” I gave her the petting she craved and when I glanced back at Graf, he was also looking at me.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked.

“Wedding plans.”

His grin melted my heart.

“We don’t have to wait for a ceremony to celebrate.” I leaned into him with a kiss, and he pulled me against him.

Pluto gave a growl of protest and a big hiss before he vacated the bed.

When I finally stretched and decided I had to feed the horses, Graf had fallen back to sleep. I left him snoozing and slipped into shorts and tennis shoes to do my barn chores.

A breeze lifted my brown curls off my shoulders. Before anyone could say “Jack Spratt” it would be Christmas. Time rushed by. It was a quantum physics question—why did time flee when one was happy and drag when one was sad? The answer had something to do with perception, but I didn’t want to try and figure it out.

The horses cantered to the barn the minute they saw me. Reveler gave a corkscrew buck just to let me know I was late with his chow. While they ate, I groomed them. Lucifer had settled into my herd without a problem. When the Natchez sisters who’d owned him were sent to prison, his care had fallen to me. It became less and less likely I’d try to re-home him. He was here at Dahlia House to stay. Graf adored riding him, and so did I. And Miss Scrapiron had two boyfriends to tease and torment. Life was good for her, too.

The horses finished eating, and I turned them out, then went in and made Aunt Loulane’s cathead biscuit recipe. While they baked, I took a shower and got ready for the day. I wasn’t exactly eager to start, but it had to be done. The fact that it was nine o’clock and Tinkie wasn’t beating the door down told me Oscar had filled her in about Tilda Richmond and the possible link to the Lady in Red.

Tinkie wasn’t the kind of person who let the past define her, but Tilda’s story was a sad one. It would hurt her heart, and she would also feel Oscar’s pain. That his ancestral aunt might have been a madam in a brothel, whether in D.C. or the Wild West, was no big deal. That she’d been Lincoln’s lover—in the Old South view that would be sleeping with the enemy, literally—also had no sting in this day and time.

If Tilda had been involved in assassinating a president—that was a mark of shame, especially if she used sex as a tool to get close to Lincoln, only to betray him. Those tactics were dishonorable. Somehow, though, none of this possible historical scandal coalesced into a motive for murder. Olive might kill if she felt betrayed. And the Heritage Heroes would stoop to throwing tomatoes and trying to run Olive out of town. But murder? Now, money—that was a good motive for murder. And if Olive’s boasts of financial gain to be made from her “research and book” could be believed, I had a lead worth pursuing.

I took a tray of biscuits, sausage, sawmill gravy, and fresh, hot coffee upstairs to my fiancé. To earn his rakish grin, I would have hoed a row of cotton.

“Where are you off to?” he asked, savoring the aroma of the coffee.

“To find Dr. Webber. I think it’s time I had a sit-down with him alone. If he knows something definitive about the Lady in Red, I need to know what it is.”

“He’s a handsome man.” Graf pretended to pout.

“And he can’t hold a candle to you.” I leaned down and kissed him long and deep. “Wait here for me. I’ll be back.”

The day promised plenty of sun, and I let the top down on my mother’s old Chinese red Mercedes roadster and took off for Ole Miss.

To the north and east of Zinnia, the Mississippi terrain changes radically. The flat stretches of the alluvial delta buck up in small hills. The change is sudden and dramatic, and the hills rise up on the horizon like a wall of green. While I loved the delta, I also appreciated the different topography of the state.

Zinnia is a small farming town, and Oxford is an upscale college town. They might have developed on separate planets. Oxford is the home of the University of Mississippi, or Ole Miss as it is fondly called. It is also the home of William Faulkner, a man whose employment in the postal service sometimes led him to burn the mail rather than deliver it. Faulkner’s stated attitude—just because a man had the money to mail a letter didn’t mean he had anything worthwhile to say—appealed to me.

Whether the story was true or not, I enjoyed it. And I applauded his ingenuity.

I drove to the Ole Miss campus and parked in the shadiest place I could find. The campus was beautiful, but the asphalt lot was at least ninety-eight degrees. The walk to the history department left me sweaty and breathless. I could only hope that, after all this effort, Richard Webber would be in his office. I hadn’t tried to make an appointment—I was afraid he’d dodge me if he knew I was coming.

The secretary gave me a knowing look when I asked where to find the professor. I wondered how many women had tried to track down the wily historian. I probably couldn’t count that high. As far as I knew, he’d never been married.

After following a rat’s maze of narrow corridors, at last I knocked on his closed door.

“Who is it?” an annoyed voice asked.

“Sarah Booth Delaney.”

Rustling and the sound of furniture moving put me to wondering if he was barricading the door. It swung open as he shrugged into his jacket. Seersucker and very Southern male. He cultivated a distinct image—distinguished, bookish, a bit disheveled, and manly.

“Ms. Delaney,” he said, inviting me in with a crook of his finger. “Come in. And close the door.”

His office reflected his persona. Dark bookcases were filled with leather-bound volumes. A beautiful old globe gleamed in sunlight flooding in from two windows with plantation blinds half closed. There was an air of studiousness and intelligence in the room.

He pointed to a sofa, motioning for me to sit. A big leather sofa. I looked at it, and I looked at him. He clearly read my thoughts, and his grin widened.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Tell me about the Lady in Red and your research.”

“I like a direct woman.” He rolled his office chair close. I caught a whiff of cologne. Something Calvin. He crossed his legs, ankle on knee, the picture of casual ease. “I hear Dr. Twist got her exhumation.”

“She did.”

“Folks are mighty pissed, I’m sure.” And he was mighty pleased.

“That’s old news. You accused Olive of stealing your research. How did she do it?”

He went to a filing cabinet, dug through some files, and brought out
The Aggregate of Past Events
magazine. He found the article he wanted and handed it to me.

The headline read: “Mississippi Grave Holds Secrets to Civil War.”

I scanned the article, which pretty much put forth the same hypothesis Olive espoused—that the Lady in Red was Lincoln’s mistress during the thick of the Civil War. I wanted a copy of the article for Tinkie to read. “But you published it, Dr. Webber. It’s public knowledge. Olive didn’t steal it if you put it out there.”

His face held pity and contempt. “There’s a code of honor among academics. Hell, among journalists and scientists and even novelists. When a colleague is working on a premise, others stay away. It’s an unwritten rule. Once a claim is staked, it’s forbidden for a peer to jump the claim. Everyone abides by this. Except Olive. She’s a vulture picking the bones of any scholar with an original thought because she has none of her own.”