Splintered Bones (32 page)

"Would it have been such a terrible thing for Kip to know Bud was her father?"

"Yes. Yes, it would have. Things were bad enough for Kip, but that would have been worse."

"I don't see how," I said. "Kemper was such an S.O.B. At least Bud didn't beat you."

She turned on me. "You don't know anything about not belonging, Sarah Booth. Don't lecture me on what it's like to discover that you're a bastard child. Don't ever try to tell me how it feels when you have your nose rubbed in the fact that the man you called Daddy has nothing for you but contempt. Every beating I took was for Kip. Every time Kemper struck me, it was only the thought of Kip's face that kept me from killing him on the spot. Weston McBride isn't my father. I don't know who my real father is, but when I came home pregnant and told my mother the truth, that was the end of me.

" 'Like mother, like daughter,'
my father
said. Those were the last words he ever spoke to me."

23

A
large crack of thunder greeted meat dahlia house
. The old porch seemed to vibrate as I walked to the front door.

"Keep that storm outside--the rain
and
that thundercloud on your forehead," Jitty said before I could clear the threshold.

"I'm not in the mood for a sassy ghost who"--I checked out her black jumpsuit with the red racing stripes--"looks like an escapee from some sci-fi movie."

She put her hands on her slender hips, accentuating the spandex that clung in all the right places. "You've got mail, and somethin' tells me you'd better read it," she said defiantly.

"Not another word," I warned her. I went to the kitchen and began to rummage through the refrigerator for something to eat. I was angry, and any strong emotion required calories. I found a platter of leftover fried catfish and put it on the table. Catfish po'boys were an option. I turned back to rummage for other possibilities.

Faster than a speeding bullet, Sweetie Pie made a lunge for the fish. Her houndish jaws snapped shut on all four pieces as she passed by, and before I could blink, there was nothing left on the platter but a couple of cold fries, some stray pieces of onion, and a puddle of grease.

"Sweetie!" I started after her, but she was out the doggy door and free.

"I told you that hound was gonna be nothin' but trouble." Jitty had come through the wall and was standing by the refrigerator.

"Jitty, I don't want to be chastised or lectured. Save it for a rainy day."

Prophetically, another deep echo of thunder rattled the windows, and raindrops the size of marbles began pelting down. Jitty walked past me, just a cool whisper blowing by. She went to the window and looked out at the Delaney family cemetery in the distance. I didn't have to look; I knew by heart the outline of the old tombstones, and the newer ones that marked my immediate family. I suddenly wondered where Jitty's bones had been buried. I was about to ask when the telephone rang.

I answered it, fully expecting Coleman. Cece's voice was low, as if she were whispering.

"I've just heard that Kip is alive."

"Your sources are accurate," I said. I wondered who was tickling Cece's ear with whispers.

"I think we should keep this quiet," she continued.

My agreement was total, but my curiosity was piqued. "Why?" I asked innocently. "So many people were traumatized by the fire, I would have thought you'd be rushing to press with a banner headline."

"Sarah Booth, dahling," Cece said with some contempt, "a true journalist knows the difference between a good story and the
seed
of a good story. This is just a tiny little sprout."

"And what do you see growing from this sprout?" I asked.

"A girl can't give away all of her secrets. Just tell Coleman to keep this hush-hush. I'm positive he'll agree with my assessment of the situation. I presume Lee is still in jail?"

"Yes."

"Good. She should stay there." Before I could respond to that, she continued. "She's protecting Kip, isn't she?"

I couldn't answer that question. As frustrated as I was with Lee, I couldn't violate her trust.

"Never mind answering, I don't need confirmation. What are you going to do?"

"Try to find Kip and the horse."

"And that delicious trainer," Cece said. She smacked her lips. "When you find him, tell him if he needs a place to stay, I have plenty of room."

"You're getting greedy, Cece. Can you handle Nathaniel Walz
and
Bud Lynch?" I couldn't help teasing her just a little. The developer was so definitely not her type, and yet she'd taken him to the ball as her date.

"Talent comes in surprising packages," Cece said somewhat coolly. "By the way, your entry in the Elvis contest was quite impressive. What was his name, Tom Smith? I hope you have a percentage in him. That man is going places." She cleared her throat, and her voice dropped to low and sizzling. "How far did he make it with you, dahling?"

The wickedness in her voice was the only thing that saved her. It was impossible to get angry with her when she was being so bad. "I don't kiss and tell." I'd actually forgotten about Tom. "Did he do well?"

"First place. By a large margin. Congratulations. He said to tell you he'd be in touch." I could imagine her smiling. "So what gives with you and the man with a badge?"

"Business," I said too quickly.

"I'm sure."

"Coleman's married." Even to me I sounded defensive.

"Not for long, from what I hear."

"So tell me, Cece, what is it about Nathaniel Walz that holds your interest?" I had to refocus the conversation, or Cece would soon ascertain that my feelings for Coleman, though confused, weren't all professional.

"He's a man with ideas," she said. "I like the way he can see into the future. That's a talent, Sarah Booth, as real as writing or painting or singing."

"What does he see?" I had to be careful. Cece sounded as if she really liked this man.

"Beautiful buildings, places that bring back the elegance of the old South."

"Does he have any locations in mind?" My heart rate increased, even though Harold had assured me that Dahlia House was safe.

"He's very secretive. That's one of the things I find so interesting about him. He knows a lot about this area, and he reveals only what he must."

"Does he have backing, or is he ..." I almost said "a lot of talk." I had to remember that Cece had feelings for this man. While I'd barely spoken to him and didn't like what gossip I'd heard, Cece might have invested emotionally in him.

"He has yet to fully confide in me, but when he does, if there's a good opportunity, I'll let you know. Ta-ta, dahling, one of my best sources is on the other line."

She hung up, and I replaced the phone. Cece was not behaving normally. I couldn't help but wonder if her talk of secrets and withheld revelations had more to do with what she'd failed to tell Nathaniel Walz about herself than vice versa. I'd never known Cece to have an emotional attachment, and I'd never considered how hard it was going to be for her to reveal her past.

I looked around for Jitty. She'd taken herself off on some ghostly business, and I was spared having to confess that she was right about one thing--while I found safety in the past, Cece had hurled herself into a new future. Neither one of us was doing great in the romance department, though.

I was hungry, but had neither the energy nor the inclination to do anything about it. It took the very last of my strength to drag myself up the stairs and run some bathwater. When all else fails, a soak in a tub is the only alternative.

I used a liberal amount of some delicious foaming vanilla bubble bath that a friend in
New York
had sent me, lit candles, and got myself a hefty measure of Jack Daniel's on the rocks. I had a gut feeling that Jack and I were going to become good friends before the evening was over. If I'd belonged to the elite society of Daddy's Girls, I would have drunk white wine. Lucky me, as an outcast I could keep company with the rowdy boys.

I sank beneath the bubbles, forcing my body to relax one part at a time. Underwater, sound is completely distorted, but I thought I heard someone at the front door. I rose up out of the water and listened. The only thing I heard was the water dripping from my head and pattering into the tub. Sweetie Pie, though a food thief and shoe-chewer, was a pretty good watchdog. If someone had been around the house, she would have barked.

Tinkie had given me an inflatable bath pillow, and I made good use of it, reclining back. The Jack Daniel's had a bite, and I felt it burn all the way down. It was Sunday, and I'd been through an emotional wringer with the thought of Kip burning to death, and now her resurrection. Lee was lying through her teeth, but I didn't know how to save her without sacrificing the thing she loved most. I wanted to get very, very drunk, and I intended to do exactly that. I took another long swallow, rattling the ice cubes.

Not even whiskey could rout Kip from my thoughts. I hadn't realized how disturbed she truly was. Was she mentally unbalanced enough to risk burning down Swift Level? Had she actually turned off the sprinklers? The fire had been contained to the stud barn, but one gust of wind and the flames could have been spread to the mare and foal barn, then on to the main barn or the covered show ring. Kip was fourteen, a child. But she was intelligent and surely capable of understanding the danger of starting a fire, and the consequences of murder, even for a man who so soundly deserved to die.

She was terribly disturbed, and I had to accept it. Lee, too, would have to come to terms with the truth. And soon.

I sponged water down my back and sank against my pillow. I polished off one drink and poured another from the crystal decanter of amber liquid. The storm had passed, and weak sunlight came through the window by the bathtub. I held the decanter aloft, enjoying the play of light on the glass and whiskey. I knew I had to call Dr. Vance in
Memphis
. I wondered if I could find him on a Sunday.

Sweetie Pie's toenails scrabbled on the oak floor in the foyer, and I listened for her to head up the steps. She was mostly a meat-and-potatoes kind of dog, but she also had a fondness for bathwater. I suspected she, too, was missing Kip. We could have a little drink together and commiserate.

Suddenly, there was a low growl that ended in a snarl. I had the sensation of an icicle dragged slowly up my spine. I eased out of the water, grabbed a towel, and slipped to my bedroom door. The extended growl came again from the landing of the stairs.

Someone was in the house.

Leaving sodden footprints behind me, I tiptoed over to the computer and picked up the telephone on my desk. The phone was dead. The damn computer modem was plugged in. Dahlia House needed an entire wiring face-lift.

There was no time to scrabble around tracing a snarl of wires. My clothes were scattered over the floor, and for once it was a good thing. I found jeans and a blouse and slipped into them, stepping into some sneakers as I zipped my pants.

Outside, the day was ending on a note of fresh-washed glory. The storm had passed, and pink clouds burned to the west. The intense light gave the room a glow that made everything seem more vivid, as if the volume of color had increased, saturating everything. My blood was pumping hard as I looked around my bedroom for a weapon. I picked up a heavy candlestick and inched back to the door.

Sweetie's growl was even lower, more deadly, finally ending on a snarl and a snap. I heard her moving slowly up the stairs until she took her stand outside the open bedroom door. Crouching low, she readied herself for the attack.

She was not a hound who would back down in a shoot-out. She'd already rescued me twice, and in the process had taken a stab in the gut and a grazing wound from a bullet, not to mention having her sutures ripped open.

I pressed myself against the wall by the door, ready to rush out as soon as Sweetie made her move. If she could knock the intruder down, I would deliver the coup de grace. I gripped the candlestick tighter, listening to the very soft tread on the stairs.

"You are one ugly-looking dog."

The voice was casual and feminine, not at all what I expected. I leaned against the wall and exhaled. Not that Krystal Brook wasn't a dangerous woman, but I didn't think she'd come to kill me while talking a blue streak to advertise her presence.

"Sarah Booth Delaney, call off this dog!" Krystal yelled.

"Have you ever heard of knocking?" I asked, stepping into the doorway. "I was ready to bash your brains in."

"Seems to be a bad habit in this part of the country." She stayed on the top step, her gaze shifting from Sweetie to me. "I did knock. Repeatedly. The serving staff seems to be in a coma. No one came to the door. What kind of dog is that, anyway? I've never seen anything that ugly."

"Watch it," I warned her. "Sweetie Pie is a red tic, and she's mine. I happen to find her quite lovely."

She rolled her eyes. "There's no accounting for taste."

"How true. I never in a million years thought I'd see you prancing on a stage in white boots."

"Honey, my wardrobe is the least of my problems. You should try being married to your manager." She made a rueful face. "I stopped by because I wanted to check on you, and we never got a chance to talk. I suppose Bud's a moot issue, now." She shrugged, but it didn't hide the slight tremble in her voice.