Them Bones (19 page)

"Looking for buried treasure. There's half a million buried somewhere in Delo's fields." She faced me and smiled. It was chilling to witness. "Everyone's hunting for it. Haven't you heard?"

"Treasure?" Was this some
Gilligan's Island
fantasy? It was an act of pure insanity to go out to a cornfield on a freezing November night, unless there was a mighty good reason. "Where would Delo get half a million dollars?"

"It wasn't Delo's. It was payoff money. Meant for my father."

I didn't follow. "Your father was in a dove field to get a bribe?"

She gave me a long look of contempt that chilled me to the bone. "My father couldn't be bought. What is it you really want?"

"You know Delo's dead."

One eyebrow lifted. "And you wonder if I might have killed him."

"Did you?"

"The gun they will have found beside the body is mine. A Remington. A gift from my mother when I was twelve. She had my initials engraved on a brass plate. She thought hunting would be good for me. Or maybe she hoped I'd shoot myself." She picked up the bottle she'd held before, lifting it to the light so that it seemed to glow. "I'm allowed a few harmless indulgences here. One of them is collecting. I bought this only last month from an auction in
California . Amazing what items come onto the market. People get in financial situations and they're forced to part with valued possessions. Acts of desperation." She came to me and put it in my hand. "Lovely, isn't it?"

"Yes." It was exquisite, but her train of thought shifted faster than the Orient Express. I believed she was crazy.

"Give this to my brother. Tell him that the pits of hell are opening and the bones are crawling from the cold, damp earth. Vengeance is neither swift nor just, but inexorable." Her eyes glittered. "Tell him the waiting is over, for both of us."

The drive home was a blur. I played an old Arlo Guthrie tape and sang along, remembering my mother, who knew all the words. Even when the songs began to repeat themselves, I kept driving and singing. The beautiful glass bottle was on the seat beside me, but I didn't look at it. I didn't want to think, because there was no good place my thoughts could go. By the time I turned off the old highway and started down the drive to Dahlia House, night had fallen, and once again I regretted that I had not left a light on. Sylvia Garrett had spooked me.

I was interested in
Hamilton . Very interested. In a way that had brought turmoil and grief into my life. I did not want to believe that he had deliberately plotted to kill his mother. But Sylvia had left me with some mighty big doubts where
Hamilton the Fifth was concerned. Had he left her institutionalized for nineteen years to take his rap? Or was she the murderess? Of her mother
and
Delo?

If she wasn't at the scene of Delo's murder, then she had been in the vicinity, digging in the mud. After nineteen years, she made a break for freedom on the weekend Delo was shot. The timing was suspicious, to say the least.

I parked beneath the big magnolia tree and quickly pulled the tarp over the car. My first order of business in the morning was going to be to pay a few back notes on the Roadster. I had the cash now, thanks to Tinkie.

The night was cold and I shivered. Dahlia House was a huge square of blackness, and I hoped Jitty was waiting for me in the kitchen.

As I started around to the back with Sylvia's bottle in hand, I saw movement on the front porch. Remembering
Hamilton 's earlier visit, my impulse was to run inside and lock the door. But it might be Harold, waiting for me. I headed that way.

"Home at last," came the sultry tones of Kincaid Maxwell. "I was beginning to think you'd skipped town and left all your debts for poor old Harold to settle. Interesting bauble. Where did you get it?"

"A, I'm capable of settling my own debts, and B, none of your business," I informed her, overcoming my shock at her visit. Kincaid wouldn't normally waste her social hours on the likes of me. This had to be a business call, and since there were no witnesses to this exchange, I had a feeling that the gloves were going to come off. In a way, it was the best thing that could have happened to me. I'd had a rough day, and there was no one I'd rather dump on than Kincaid.

"Is that why Harold Erkwell sent me a check for your lunch at the charity ball?"

"Probably Harold sent it because he's a gentleman, and a generous one at that," I replied, wanting nothing more than to wring Harold's neck. There was no way he could have anticipated the repercussions of his act, but nonetheless . . .

"They're all generous, until you marry them," Kincaid said.

"That was your mistake, Kincaid. Not mine." A little salt in an open wound is always refreshing.

"That's true, I don't have to come to parties dressed like a slut to get attention," she parried.

I was getting a little tired of the banter. "What do you want? Say it and then leave."

"I hear you're good at finding out things."

If I had not been leaning on the porch railing I would have fallen into the azalea bushes. "What?"

"Don't play dumb with me. My money's as good as Tinkie's."

I wanted to strangle Tinkie more than Harold. "What kind of things do you want found out?" It would be quicker just to listen to her. I pushed open the front door. A week ago I'd been ashamed of the state of Dahlia House. I wouldn't have wanted a Daddy's Girl inside. But I'd changed. "Come on in, Kincaid. I'll pour us a glass of moonshine."

"That sounds divine," she answered, trotting in behind me.

I carefully placed Sylvia's bottle on the sideboard by the decanter. When I snapped on a lamp, the little bottle glowed with life, and I couldn't stop myself from thinking about
Hamilton . I now had a reason to see him again.

"Sarah Booth?" Kincaid said, almost at my elbow.

I divided the last of the moonshine. I also lit a fire with some of the wood Harold had carried in for me. In five minutes the room had taken on a pleasant glow.

"This is strictly confidential," Kincaid began.

I wondered if she was stupid or desperate. "What do you want?"

"It's a delicate matter." She stared into the moonshine but failed to continue.

She was obviously getting cold feet. "Man or money?" I asked. There were no matters more delicate for a Daddy's Girl.

"Both," she said and pressed her lips together.

It occurred to me then that she was afraid. Kincaid, who got the tennis pro first, who always had the newest car, who wore the sexiest clothes and then called others sluts.

I would like to say that her situation didn't give me pleasure, but I'd lied enough in the past week. I was having a good time. "Tell me about it," I said smoothly.

"It's Chas. If he finds out about the money--"

I waved her to silence. "From the beginning," I ordered.

"My God, it is such a mess," she whispered and then belted back all of the liquor. She regained a little Kincaid hauteur and met my gaze. "You've got to go out to Delo Wiley's house and find the check I gave him yesterday morning before he was killed. He didn't have time to cash it, being Sunday and all. If Chas gets wind of this, he'll--why, he'll divorce me."

19

It was my turn to knock back the rest of the moonshine, and I steadied myself against the mantel. There was the tinkling sound of Jitty's bracelets, but I knew Kincaid would assume it was a wind chime caught in the blustery north wind. After a deep breath, I excused myself and went down to the cellar to hunt for more whiskey. This night required libations. I also needed a moment to think. Kincaid's revelation had opened the door on a lot of questions, and though she was worried about a missing check, I saw potential for a murder charge. Kincaid, sheltered her entire life, obviously had not thought of this.

Among the jars of jam and syrup, I recognized another of the dark brown bottles Uncle Lyle had preferred for his liquor, saying that too much sunlight took the bite out of good whiskey. I pulled it out, blew the dust off, and headed upstairs.

Kincaid asked no questions; she simply held out her glass. Her hand was trembling. I poured us both a goodly measure and then took a seat. "The most obvious question is, why were you giving Delo money?" I said in a cool, flat voice.

"Tinkie said you could keep a secret."

I considered pointing out to her that if Deputy Gordon Walters discovered a check from her to Delo, the questions would be very public and very ugly. Gordon didn't have an appreciation for the delicate treatment needed by a Daddy's Girl. "If you want me to help, you have to tell me the facts."

"Then you'll sneak in there and get the check? I'm sure it's somewhere in his old shack."

"I haven't committed to any course of action." She was still Kincaid, perfectly willing to risk my neck to solve her problem. "What was the money for?"

Kincaid put her drink down and clasped her hands. She seemed to be struggling with herself. When she spoke, she didn't look at me. "I was renting one of his camps from him."

Kincaid didn't hunt, and she wasn't the rustic type. Roughing it, to her, meant leaving the nanny behind. Which meant she was meeting someone in the cabin for some mattress maneuvers. "I see."

"Delo knew how to keep his mouth shut," she said.

"Did it ever occur to you that a check wasn't exactly a brilliant way to pay Delo?"

She ran her fingers through her hair.
"I
didn't normally pay him. It was an emergency. I got a call Sunday morning and was told that Delo needed the money right then. The, uh, other party couldn't make it, so I had to."

I didn't actually have to know her accomplice's name, but I wanted to. It was a rare luxury to have Kincaid on the ropes. "Who
usually
pays?"

"The man," she said. "You remember that much, at least, don't you?" The sarcasm was back.

"Does this man have a name?"

"Yes," she answered, "I call him Mr. Sat-is-fac-tion."

"I can only hope he was worth it," I pointed out to her. I could see that she still didn't get the big picture. "Chew on this, Kincaid. You were probably the last person, other than the murderer, to see Delo alive. He knew things about you that you'd prefer to keep secret. Now the way I understand law enforcement, they look for someone with means, opportunity, and motive." My brick-by-brick approach to the facts was having an effect. Kincaid had gone deathly pale. "I see you as the number one suspect in Delo's murder."

"This can't be happening," she whispered, and her hand shook so hard I reached over and took the glass from her fingers. No point sloshing out perfectly good whiskey.

"It is happening," I said. I had another little time bomb to drop, but I didn't want her to faint. When she reached for the whiskey and took another sip, I nodded. A little liquid courage. "There's also the possibility that whoever you've been meeting at Delo's set you up for his murder."

The swallow of liquor got caught in her throat and I thought I'd have to use the Heimlich maneuver, but she got her breath and stood up. She began pacing in front of the fire. "He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't," she said, but it was clear she wasn't talking to me.

"Did Delo call and say he wanted the money?" I asked.

"No." She stopped and froze. "No, it was . . . him. And Delo acted a little surprised when I showed up with the check."

Betrayal is hard to watch, even when it's so deserved. I led Kincaid to her chair and eased her back into it. She took the whiskey and drank again.

"Who were you meeting?" I asked.

"This can't be real," she said, and her eyes searched mine for some sign that I was in on the joke.

"Who?" I asked.

"My God," she whispered. "You know Chas is absolutely going to kill me."

"Who?" I asked with a snap.

"Isaac Carter."

I dreamed of fields covered in corn stubble. The stalks had been chopped and broken, and dead leaves and tassels rattled in the wind. I was hiding among the debris, listening to the sounds of the hunters' boots crunching toward me. Their laughter seemed to expand in the early morning sun, golden notes hanging in the wind.

They had come to kill. They would pull the trigger two times, quickly, buckshot scattering in an ever-widening pattern. It was a morning of recreation to them, small deaths that registered only as amusement.

Hidden in the dry husks, I felt the ground seep blood, and I darted into the air.

"There she is! Shoot her!" I was flying hard, but I looked over my shoulder and into the green eyes of Hamilton Garrett the Fifth. He stood among a cluster of men, all with shotguns to their shoulders. I heard the roar of the guns and felt the air around me shudder with the shock of the blasts.

I woke up gasping for air. The sheets were soaked with sweat, and the bedside clock showed two in the morning. I had kicked away the covers, and though I was sweating, I was freezing. I hurried into the bathroom and lit the space heater that had become dear to my heart. In a matter of moments I was holding my nightgown over the heater, catching the hot drafts of air in the folds of the gown.

"Mary Margaret Allen caught her gown on fire and burned to death two years ago doin' that exact same thing. They said she flared like a human torch, runnin' through the house and screamin'." Jitty appeared sitting on the side of the tub.

"It was a tragedy," I agreed. After my dream, I would have been pleasant to Satan if he had stopped to converse. I was not ready to go back to bed.

"You'd sleep better if you got laid. Call Harold. I'll bet he'd be over here before you could hang up the phone." At the mention of Harold, my thumb pulsed wickedly. I captured one last gust of hot air in my gown and ran back to the bed, jumping under the quilts.

"You've been reading too many back issues of
Cosmopolitan.
You're talking mighty trashy," I said, to cover my own confusion.

"I'll rephrase it. You need the release of--now how does that book call it? Sexual climax," she said, grinning. "I read some of your college books."

I had a terrible thought that Jitty would get too comfortable with Sigmund Freud. I could just see them both, in the parlor, deciding what was best for me, and I certainly didn't want to hear about penis envy from her. "Psychology isn't a science, exactly," I reminded her.