A Garland of Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  Tinkie was staring at me like I’d grown a second head. “Are we getting paid to follow the men?” she asked.

  She had a point. “Okay. Let me shower. I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll have your coffee waiting.”

  I took an extra two minutes to snuggle with Coleman before I forced myself into the shower and a clean pair of black jeans, my boots, a turtleneck, and a hoodie. I picked up a scarf and gloves. The day would be pleasant, but if we were anywhere in the shade it would be chilly.

  “You’re really going to interview cheaters this early in the morning?” Coleman asked when I had my hand on the doorknob to leave.

  “Yep.”

  “I know you don’t like this case.”

  “Nope, but cheating money spends just like honest money.” I grabbed his big toe and twisted.

  “Stop it!” He snatched his foot away. “Do that again and you won’t be able to go anywhere with Tinkie.”

  “As tempting as that sounds, I’ll see you later.”

  I bounced down the stairs. Despite the chore ahead of me, I was in a great mood. And so was Darla and the ever-present Kathleen. I wondered if Darla’s friend lived on the grounds or if she simply had abdicated her life to Darla’s. Tinkie and I had become very close since I’d returned to Zinnia, but she had a husband and a life. All of my friends had commitments that kept them busy. I wondered what it would be like to have a friend who could completely blend her life into what I was doing.

  “Frosty the Snowman” was playing on a speaker in the kitchen when I joined Tinkie at the counter for a beautiful omelet, biscuits, grits, and coffee. “Darla, if I don’t stop eating, I’m going to explode.” Tinkie truly had a reason to eat, but I had lost all restraint. There would be wardrobe repercussions.

  “It’s the holidays. Enjoy. There’ll be time to diet after the first of the year.”

  “I can’t even think about that,” I admitted.

  “Diet is just another four-letter word,” Tinkie said. “I’m pregnant, so I can pretty much eat whatever I want.”

  I rolled my eyes and Darla laughed out loud. “You two are like sisters more than partners in a PI agency.”

  I liked the sound of that. “We are close.”

  “I saw Clarissa had you buttonholed at the pilgrimage.”

  She didn’t ask, but it was clear she was dying to know what was up, and I figured Darla would be able to help us. “We’re on a case,” I said.

  “A case we don’t want,” Tinkie threw in.

  “Clarissa hired you?” Darla was a little taken aback. “She’s usually the cause of scandal and disruption. I can’t believe she’s really interested in finding out who pushed Bart down the stairs.”

  “So you, too, think he was pushed?” Tinkie asked.

  “Of course. Bart was up there with Bricey arguing about that damn Caddy. Bricey doesn’t have the sense of a roly-poly. She wanted Bart to give her another new car because that one got destroyed and she was too busy flitting around town to get insurance for it.”

  “Oh, dear,” I said. “That’s a heavy financial loss, then.”

  “As it was obviously meant to be.” Darla refilled our coffee cups and I inhaled the wonderful aroma. “Bricey has no one to blame but herself, but of course she’ll end up blaming everyone. I got a call this morning from the committee that handles the Christmas tree lighting. She was trying to intimidate them into buying her a new car.”

  “Seriously?” Tinkie said. “She feels the tree decorating committee is liable for the damage?”

  Darla nodded. “Bricey believes she is owed that car. She doesn’t care who pays for it. She made the case that since it happened on city property, the Christmas tree committee should pay for the car out of the city coffers. She is just a prostitute.”

  “How so?” I took note of Darla’s prickly anger.

  “She slept with Bart and she has the prostitute mentality. She wants to be paid for her work. It’s all transactional to her.”

  “That car’s a cool seventy grand. She must think she’s thrilling in the sack,” Tinkie muttered.

  Darla and Kathleen laughed out loud. “Oh, she thinks she’s better than a ballerina on a trapeze,” Kathleen said. “I heard Bart was so bored with her he’d rather go to the neighborhood association meetings than spend time with her.”

  That was a charge of serious brain-numbing boring—I’d been to some of those meetings at Tinkie’s behest. I’d rather go to the dentist than endure another one. “Maybe she wasn’t all that, but once upon a time Bart Crenshaw willingly jumped in the sack with Bricey.”

  “Some men are after the conquest. Some like a little strange. Some are morons. I put Bart in all three categories. He can sell the hell out of property, but his real focus in life is chasing women.”

  I did my best to study Darla without being obvious. “Who do you think dumped the cement?”

  She shrugged. “It could be half a dozen people. Bricey’s made some enemies.”

  “Because she sleeps with married or affianced men?”

  “That and…” She turned away and went to the sink, where she rattled dishes. Kathleen started to clear our empty plates off the counter.

  “Hey, don’t leave us hanging,” Tinkie said. “We have to dig into this, and it would be a big help if you could give us a head start.”

  Darla faced us and nodded. “Bricey plays cutthroat with her business deals, too. She’s a take-no-prisoners kind of woman. She runs a private nursing business where she supplies in-home nurses to sick people, the elderly, people in hospitals that require constant monitoring. She’s had … issues. Accusations.”

  “What kind?”

  “You’d need to check that for yourself. Bricey doesn’t strike me as what I’d call an angel of mercy for sick folks.” Darla brought the coffeepot over for one last refill.

  “Bricey seriously has her own business?” I wondered how she found time to hold down a job—or what kind of job could be done from a prone position, which seemed to be her favorite pose.

  “Like I said, she owns and runs a home health nursing service. There was some talk a few months back about a client who died … from neglect.”

  This put a whole new angle on the case. “Patient’s name?”

  Darla shook her head. “I’m not comfortable going any further. I feel that I’m painting her black when I don’t know what happened. I’ve only heard gossip, not facts.”

  “We’ll look into it,” Tinkie said gently. “No one is accusing her of anything, and we will check it out. You can just save us some time if you gave us the basic details.”

  “It was Jerry Goode’s grandmother. He’s a city police officer. He was at the karaoke event when Tulla was shocked. Anyway, his granny was at Supporting Arms Care Center and Jerry had paid Bricey to send a private nurse over every day to check on her and make sure she was clean and ate a good lunch. Only Bricey didn’t send anyone. I guess she figured the old woman was in a care facility and she was getting proper care.”

  “This is going to be very interesting.” Tinkie slid off the barstool, ready to rumble. She was very protective of the elderly and babies, and the slight flush in her cheeks told me she was now gunning for Bricey. “We should get busy, Sarah Booth. Thank you, Darla, Kathleen. You’ve been a big help.”

  I thanked Darla and Kathleen for breakfast, grabbed my purse, and we were out the door. “Let’s walk,” I suggested. I noticed Tinkie had on sensible flats, and we’d both eaten enough food for a football team. Some exercise—the vertical kind—would be good for us.

  The day was overcast and gray, a little foreboding. But we had three solid leads to pursue, and I discussed them with Tinkie as we walked down the sidewalk.

  “We need to check into the heavy equipment angle. Someone had to hire that cement mixer. The driver had to be paid. That shouldn’t be hard to track down.” Even as I said it, I realized that few drivers were going to admit to destroying an expensive car. It was going to
be harder than I thought.

  “And we have the nursing home angle to check out,” Tinkie said. “Killing a person’s granny is a lot more serious than a car.”

  “To you,” I pointed out. “I’m not so sure Bricey feels the same way. She’s a bit on the shallow side. I think the car may be more important than one old lady.”

  Tinkie laughed out loud and I was rewarded for my snark.

  “And don’t forget we need to look into our client’s background. Bart all but called Clarissa a murderer.”

  “He did indeed. We should have brought our laptops to Columbus,” Tinkie said.

  “We didn’t plan on working,” I reminded her. “We can always borrow Cece’s. Darla has one in her office. Or we can stop in at the public library and do some online research.”

  “The library is just up the street, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Let’s hit that coffee shop and get two cups to go. Then look up what we can find on Clarissa Olson’s past.”

  “It’s a plan.”

  10

  Twenty minutes later, we were at the library door when they opened. We stepped inside, and I inhaled the odor of books. It was a smell that made me feel smart. We found the computers, and while we didn’t have some of the apps we used for research, we were able to do some basic background checks on Clarissa Olson.

  What we discovered was eye-opening. Clarissa was a real estate mogul. She held property in downtown Columbus, and there were a dozen local newspaper stories about her “kingdom” and her influence on the city zoning board. One of the members of the board was none other than Bart Crenshaw.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit conflicted that a real estate developer is on the zoning board?” Tinkie asked.

  “More than a bit. And check this out.” I’d found another story where Clarissa had developed a row of high-end condos in Oxford, Mississippi. They were luxury condos within walking distance of the stadium where the Ole Miss Rebels played. “The owner of the land says he was cheated out of his money by Clarissa.”

  “And no charges against her were filed, right?”

  I kept checking. “It doesn’t appear charges were filed.”

  “Then it could just be sour grapes. Someone sold land and then realized they could have asked more for it.” Tinkie was more pragmatic about land deals than I was.

  “Or it could be a reason for mischief.”

  Tinkie considered. “How would the things happening in Columbus reflect back on Clarissa?”

  “Why is she so interested in stopping them?” I countered. “It’s possible she knows who is doing this and wants it stopped before something about her is revealed.”

  “Good point. See if you can dig anything else up. Bart said something about murder in her past.”

  I kept going back through the months and the last few years before I finally hit pay dirt: “Realtor Questioned in Hunting Death of Oxford Businessman.” The story made me think of Jitty’s appearance as Alex Forrest back in Sunflower County.

  “I can’t read the story. You’re hogging the screen,” Tinkie said. “What does it say?”

  She was sitting across from me and wasn’t even attempting to read the story. She just wanted to complain. “It says Clarissa was picked up, questioned, and then released. It involved an Oxford man, Johnny Bresland, who died in a hunting accident.”

  I did a search on Bresland and found his obituary. “Bresland died on a hunting trip at Hell Creek Wildlife Management Area. He was accidentally shot—or that was the ruling.” I kept scanning the story and reporting to Tinkie. “He was out by himself at dawn, and when he didn’t come back in at dusk, the other hunters went looking for him. Found him shot in the back. The assumption was that it was accidental and the person who shot him probably wasn’t even aware they had killed anyone.”

  “Right.” Tinkie was as skeptical as I was. “That sounds like a really plausible story.”

  “The local sheriff bought it. No charges were brought against anyone.”

  “Do you think Clarissa shot a man in the back?”

  I had to think about that. “I honestly don’t know. What about you?”

  “It could happen.” She stretched. We’d been sitting doing research for almost an hour. “Clarissa is focused on what she wants. I think she views everything between where she is and where she wants to go as just an obstacle to overcome. And she strikes me as the kind of person who would use the most expedient path to get there.”

  “Ambition, I agree. She has that in spades. And she loves money and nice things. That’s clear by her house. But this would be a revenge killing. That’s kind of a distraction from true ambition.”

  “Not if she gained in the settlement.” Tinkie picked up her cell phone and dialed Harold. When he answered, she put the question to him. “Do you know anyone in the Lafayette County Chancery Clerk’s office who might look up a will for me?”

  I couldn’t tell what Harold said, but I watched Tinkie’s expression shift. “I will make it up to you.” She was grinning. “Oscar is going to be very, very nice to you in the new year.”

  “Watch out, Harold!” I yelled at the phone, causing the librarian at the desk to glare at me. I clapped a hand over my face and then mimed I’m sorry. I had forgotten where I was.

  Tinkie scribbled down a number, and signaled me to come outside with her. We stood on the brown winter lawn of the library as she made a call to chancery clerk Deeter Odom in Oxford. Not ten minutes later we had the man with all the answers about Johnny Bresland’s last will and testament.

  Tinkie listened for a moment before she turned to me. “Clarissa might have a very big reason to want Johnny Bresland dead,” she said.

  “Who inherited his money?” I asked.

  Tinkie put the question to the clerk, who was still on the line. I watched her eyebrows rise almost to her hairline. “Thanks,” she said before she hung up.

  “What?”

  “Johnny Bresland’s wife, Aurora, died a month before Bresland was shot in the back. Clarissa was the only heir. There was an outright financial gift of three million dollars to her, and Clarissa was the real estate agent in charge of selling the Bresland property, which was extensive, and which means she got huge fat commissions from that.”

  We returned to the library and continued to search. The wildlife preserve where Bresland had died was in another county and we couldn’t find anything. We could find no details on the death of Aurora Bresland or what she had so conveniently died of. It was time to move on to our other leads.

  * * *

  After we left the library, I wanted to run by the Supporting Arms Care Center to check on health inspection records and how involved Bricey Presley was in the business. I knew Bricey provided home health care services for shut-ins, the elderly, and those in hospice care, but I wasn’t certain if she was a stakeholder in the nursing home itself. But Tinkie had other plans. I was about to call an Uber when Tinkie linked her arm through mine and propelled me down the sidewalk.

  “Let’s walk,” she said.

  The day was overcast, but it wasn’t bitter cold and the wind had calmed. Walking was a good idea. My pants said so, too. In fact, I’d had a few long conversations with my pants and they were giving me the dickens about a lot of my recent bad habits.

  Downtown Columbus was a beehive of shopping as Christmas approached. While we were near the bank, I deposited Clarissa’s check and called the tack shop to order Coleman’s new saddle. It would be delivered Christmas Eve. I’d done most of the rest of my shopping. Since it was only Coleman and my friends, I had an easier time buying gifts than a lot of people did.

  We walked slowly and enjoyed the window displays and downtown decorations. A children’s toy store had worked The Nutcracker theme into the presentation, and I had a moment of nostalgia for last Christmas and Jitty’s spectacular rendition of that wonderful ballet—even though I had almost frozen to death in the process of witnessing it.

  Before I could stop
her, Tinkie darted into the toy store. I knew her credit card would be smoking hot when she came out. Toys would be bought for the forthcoming child—lots of toys.

  A boutique window across the street featuring mannequins dressed for the outdoors caught my eye. I admired the display—a snowy scene complete with fir trees and even a fake reindeer wearing a knit cap and leg warmers. But it was the human clothing that caught my eye. The denim leggings, lace-up knee boots, and oversize embroidered sweater with a snowman scene were exactly the kinds of clothes I loved. With time to kill, I crossed the street to check out the display. Tinkie would likely spend an hour shopping for toys, and I’d have plenty of time to try on some outfits if I found something I just had to have.

  Up close, my eyes were drawn to the mannequin’s features. With her upswept red hair, she bore a strange resemblance to Bette Midler, one of my favorite actresses. I loved her in so many films, but The Rose, based loosely on the life of Janis Joplin, had struck a chord with me. Bette Midler had a great set of pipes and amazing comedic timing.

  For a long time I stared at the mannequin, remembering that bittersweet movie. But when I turned to go into the shop, I saw one of the mannequin’s hands move. Just a tad. I turned back to study the plastic figure. She stood perfectly still again. Perfectly. I had to laugh at myself. Then as I stepped away, the mannequin winked at me—an impossibility, since it didn’t have any eyelids.

  Back to the window I went. I almost pressed my face against the glass to get a closer view. But the mannequin was just that—a molded plastic figure with a few hinged joints. Creepy as hell. I pulled up the hood on my jacket and wrapped my scarf more tightly to ward off the chill that had suddenly seeped into my bones. This was ridiculous. I was being played for a fool by a storefront dummy.

  I started toward the front door one more time, but I couldn’t stop myself from glancing back. With a jolt, I saw Bette pressed against the glass of the window, eyeing me. She waved. I thought my heart would stop until I caught on to the wickedness at work. Yes, it was a haunted mannequin—haunted by my personal haint. It was Jitty. And I was going to kill her.