Bonefire of the Vanities

by Carolyn Haines

  I sighed. Yesterday I would have bridled at Oscar and Graf teaming up to discuss their displeasure. Now, though, I couldn’t even muster a good defense. “Tink and I do keep getting hurt.”

  “True,” he said, “but in the last case, no one could have foreseen how far south things would go. I mean, really, the Levert sisters! Preposterous.”

  “I know, but still, Tinkie or I could have been killed.”

  “But you weren’t. And you took every precaution. Sarah Booth, I don’t know how I would feel if you were my fiancée and persisted in solving crimes, but I do know you aren’t the kind of woman who can be happy staying at home.”

  “I could be an actress. That’s safer than a detective.”

  “Is it?” Harold’s smile was devilish.

  The server handed us our treats and I pulled over, licking my chocolate cone while holding Sweetie’s vanilla. Harold did the same for Roscoe. In less than five minutes, the dogs were finished and I put the car in gear.

  “How is acting dangerous?” I asked.

  “There’s a whole world of pitfalls out there. Sexy men, powerful producers, stunts that seem safe. Danger is everywhere in the world. I mean, a schoolteacher these days runs the risk of exposure to flu viruses or even a bullet. Nothing is safe.”

  I liked it that Harold argued for me. “I wish I could make Graf see that.”

  “I wish I could give him a word to the wise. If he tries to control you, he’ll lose you. That’s the bottom line. James Franklin understood your mother’s nature. Those two…” He smiled and wiped a speck of ice cream from my cheek. “My parents were very fond of them. According to my mother, they had the best marriage in the South. They somehow managed to grow together as well as individually. I think James Franklin knew your mother inside and out, and he trusted her to do the right thing. Graf has to find that place with you.”

  “He doesn’t want to be hurt.”

  “Nobody wants to be hurt, Sarah Booth. Now let’s drive. It’s hot as blazes even with the sun down. Drive fast and stir up a breeze.”

  The best advice ever. I turned onto a county road and headed north. Inspiration struck. “Let’s drive to Layland.”

  “Layland, Mississippi?” Harold was incredulous. “What on earth for? It’s a crossroads. There’s nothing there but cotton fields and jackrabbits.”

  “And Heart’s Desire.”

  Harold leaned against the door so he could watch me. “Heart’s Desire. Is this a place, a person, a jewel? Do fill me in.”

  For the first time all day, I grinned. “It’s a cult.”

  “Lord have mercy, Sarah Booth. You do have a nose for trouble. Cult as in religious or—?”

  “They claim they’re drawing in the world’s most talented people to create a sort of think tank to control the world through business investments. They get insight from the dead.”

  “What I wouldn’t give for a bit of financial advice from some dead folk with a historical perspective.”

  The cotton fields flew past as I drove down the straight Delta road into the night. In the backseat, Sweetie Pie and Roscoe let the wind flap their ears. They were in doggy bliss, and Roscoe was even behaving himself. The dog had a penchant for trouble, but riding in a car outweighed his desire for mischief.

  I filled Harold in on Tammy’s predicament. Harold frequently helped Tink and me with financial expertise on our cases, so it was just as well to clue him in from the start.

  “I can’t believe Marjorie Littlefield has fallen for these scam artists,” he said. “To be manipulated like a pathetic … It isn’t her style.”

  “Tammy said Marjorie’s giving up on life. She’s made out her will and left everything to her huge black cat, Pluto. The cat is hiding out at Tammy’s right now. Marjorie fears Chasley will kill him.”

  “Chasley Littlefield. I’ve had a dealing or two with him. Smart businessman. Very smart. Ruthless. About five years ago he offered me a partnership in an agribusiness he was building.”

  “And?” I shot a glance at Harold. He was thoughtful.

  “I didn’t take it. I believe in making money, Sarah Booth. But this agribusiness is not something I want to participate in. They’re in cahoots with big industry to create nonfertile crops, not to mention all of the genetically engineered corn and trees and salmon. These companies don’t really know what they’re unleashing. The real problem is they don’t seem to care.”

  Harold wasn’t an alarmist, and if he walked away from a profitable deal, I knew he had grave concerns about the consequences. We’d been through one plague scenario in Sunflower County, which luckily turned out to be less devastating than first anticipated, but the potential for real disaster loomed over the land.

  “So Chasley would do anything for a buck.” It wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

  “Absolutely anything.”

  “Do you think he’d harm his mother?”

  Dozens of white center road lines disappeared beneath the car as I waited for his response.

  “One reason Chasley is like he is stems from his mother. He didn’t bother to hide his contempt for her. He said she was nothing more than a high-priced whore who got the ring on her finger and then stopped putting out.”

  “Wow.” Pretty harsh words from a son.

  “I heard the gossip—she blames him for his sister’s death. I remember how ugly the talk was. Chasley hadn’t watched Mariam. He’d let her drown.”

  “I think it’s more than blaming him for negligence. I think Marjorie believes Chasley murdered his sister. She’s despondent. Tammy fears she’ll take a rash action unless something is done.”

  The lights of Layland, a dozen at best, blinked half a mile ahead.

  “Such an accusation would explain Chasley’s deep anger. Think how awful it must be.”

  “Only if he didn’t kill Mariam,” I said.

  “As I recall the story, he was fifteen and she was ten. She drowned off the docks by Marjorie’s husband’s import business in New Orleans.”

  “Right.” I slowed as we entered the outskirts of the town, passing deserted buildings, a closed tire store, an abandoned cotton gin, and two service stations with hot food offerings. Layland had gone downhill in the two years since I’d driven through. It was in a corner of the county not connected to any major roads or business centers. Few people had a reason to visit the community, which was composed of cotton fields and stretches of woods mostly leased by out-of-state private hunting concerns.

  “This is depressing.” Harold spoke my thoughts.

  In the backseat, Roscoe gave a deep growlish grumble. Sweetie’s yodel was soft and feminine.

  “The dogs are intrigued.”

  “Roscoe smells fresh opportunity for trouble, I’m sure.” Harold was droll, but also strangely proud of his new canine. “Where is Heart’s Desire?”

  “I was hoping a service station would be open so we could ask. The organization is rather secretive and I’m afraid I don’t have a real address.” I sighed. “Everything around here is closed, though.”

  “There’s a person closing up that Texaco mart.”

  I had to wait on a sedan to speed past; then I whipped the car into the parking lot and pulled up beside the young man who was locking the door. He gave the Mercedes an appreciative once-over before his gaze settled on the dogs in the backseat.

  “We’re looking for Heart’s Desire,” Harold said.

  “Who isn’t?” The young man tucked his thumbs in his back jeans’ pockets. “Why should I tell you?”

  Harold opened his billfold and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “Because we don’t have time to waste and because you want this money.”

  The man reached for it, but Harold jerked it away. “Information first.”

  “Go six miles down Truman Lane, take a left on Bishop, then a right on Drury. That’s a narrow road and you’ll miss it if you aren’t careful. And if you aren’t real careful, you’ll end up hurt. Make a wrong turn, mister, and you’ll find yourself
sinking in Compton Slough. Only the gators would be able to find you.” He snatched the money. “Won’t do you any good, though. Heart’s Desire is surrounded by an eight-foot wall and armed guards on the gate.”

  “How many people live there?” I asked.

  His narrow lips pursed. “Once they go in, they never come out.” He laughed. “Our very own Hotel California. Gossip is, they party with the dead. Some kind of coven, you know.”

  The skin along my arms danced. Aspects of this case gave me the creeps.

  “Food delivery?” Harold asked.

  “They buy some local stuff from old man Hayes. He’s into all that organic shit. The folks in the compound don’t eat anything worth having, as far as I can tell.” His grin revealed a missing tooth. “Just goes to show having a lot of money doesn’t give people good sense.”

  “You can say that again,” Harold said.

  “Have you met the women who run Heart’s Desire?” I asked.

  “Nobody in Layland has met them, but I’ve seen them a few times. The young one is hot. Red hair down to her ass. Creamy skin. A figure—” He whistled. “The old one is like Red Devil Lye in your shoes. You just want to keep hoofin’ it out of her vicinity before your feet catch fire.”

  “Do you see them around town?” I asked.

  “Yeah, right. They come shopping for slushies and potato chips.” He was a cocky young man.

  “Can the sarcasm. Have you seen them passing through town?” I clarified.

  “About once a month. They drive out and come back the next day.”

  “Do any locals work for the compound?”

  “Are you kidding? They wouldn’t let us in there to rake leaves. Far as I know, nobody from Layland has gone on the property since the ladies bought it. They don’t take lightly to trespassers. The Butler boys went back there last January to do some deer hunting. Those guards likta scared them to death.”

  “Not many people appreciate poachers,” I pointed out.

  “Folks around here don’t appreciate witches who talk to the dead.” He brought a can of Skoal out of his back pocket, but he didn’t use it.

  “Is that a fact?” Harold said.

  “Fact or no, I can’t say.” The young man straightened up. “My name’s Wilbur. If you want more information, bring more money. I’m at the mart seven days a week.” He tipped a nonexistent hat. “Now, don’t nose around that place and get yourself in trouble. We got the word for nobody to go messin’ with those women. Huey Hampton, the local justice of the peace, says we’re to leave them be.”

  “Thanks,” Harold and I said together as I pulled away and headed for the twisting road to Heart’s Desire.

  4

  At the end of Drury Road was a metal gate that looked like something from The Haunting of Hill House. At least fourteen feet high, it was heavy wrought iron. Pointed spikes decorated the top, centered by a huge ornate heart. A chain and padlock signaled that visitors were unwelcome. Did it also mean those inside were prisoners?

  Beyond the gate a rambling Spanish-style structure sprawled across a landscaped lawn bright with bougainvillea and shrubs shaped into fantasy creatures, putting me in mind of a Hollywood movie star’s mansion.

  “Paradise or prison?” Harold asked.

  “No chance of drop-in visitors.”

  Two armed guards materialized. They walked in lockstep toward the car.

  “Creepy!” I said.

  Before Harold could respond, Roscoe’s insanely penetrating bark reverberated in my skull. I wiped at my ears to see if they were bleeding.

  “Roscoe!” Harold made a grab for the dog, but he wasn’t quick enough. Even though Roscoe weighed only about thirty pounds, he hurled himself out of the car and went after the guards.

  “Saint Paul in a pinafore!” I’d lately been trying to upgrade my swearing, but so far I had only come up with ridiculous phrases. I started to chase the dog, but Harold snagged my arm.

  “Don’t you dare get out of the car.”

  A guard took slow, deliberate aim at Roscoe. In the backseat, Sweetie’s mournful howl created the sound track for a surreal scene.

  I laid on the horn, much to Harold’s dismay. “Hey! Hey!”

  “Stop it, Sarah Booth. They could shoot us.” He slowly opened his door and stood beside the car. “Roscoe, come back.” He spoke softly, reasonably—in other words, as if he were totally insane. Roscoe was in a maniac’s crosshairs, and Harold was pleasantly requesting he return to the car.

  To my utter amazement, Roscoe hunched his butt at the guards and dumped a pile of poop. In the car’s headlights, I watched in awe at the mountain of shit Roscoe produced, as if he’d been saving it for days. Maybe for weeks.

  “Uh-oh,” Harold said under his breath. “The dog has no common sense.”

  When he was done, Roscoe sprinted to the car like his ass was on fire. He flew past Harold and into the backseat.

  “Hey, Cisco, let’s beat it out of here.” Harold’s terrible Spanish accent quoted a long-ago television show, The Cisco Kid. He jumped back in the car.

  “Sí, Pancho.” I put it in reverse and stepped on the gas. Gravel and dust churned under the tires as the guards ran toward us. There was nothing to gain by talking to them, and I didn’t want them to get a good look at me.

  The security guards yelled at us. Roscoe put his paws on the back of my seat and barked a challenge. I had no doubt he was taunting the men. Sweetie was too dignified to participate in baiting sentries.

  “So that was Heart’s Desire,” Harold said after we were safely able to turn around and speed away. “How will you get inside? Not even I can fake a Dun and Bradstreet to open that gate for you.”

  “Tinkie could convince them she’s a wealthy heiress, but it would never work for me.” Tinkie had the clothes, the graces, and the mannerisms of the upper class. I was an accomplished tomboy.

  Harold laughed. “You’re an actress, Sarah Booth. Of course you could do it.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I’d rather go in with access to the whole house.” I had an idea. “I require a license to snoop in every nook and cranny, but there’s one type of employee who moves freely through every wealthy person’s home.”

  “What are you thinking about?” He knew me well enough to be concerned.

  “I think Tinkie and I will be maids.”

  “Oh, Tinkie will love that!”

  “She’ll balk at wearing housekeeping garb, but she’ll come around.” My partner was a fashion statement even in her sleep, but she would dress down to solve a case.

  “The truth is, she’ll do anything for you, Sarah Booth.”

  “And me for her.”

  “That’s why you’re such excellent partners. Now, let’s plan this out.”

  As we raced toward home, Harold and I laid the groundwork for a sneak attack on Heart’s Desire. If Tinkie and I could get inside, the first order of business would be to communicate with Marjorie Littlefield and convince her to come out of the compound and return to her life.

  “I keep asking myself why she’d do this,” Harold said. “She isn’t a quitter. She’s a savvy lady with a flair for life. My family knew her socially in New Orleans. I grew up occasionally playing with Chasley on summer weekends when our families visited. Marjorie is smart, well educated, well read.… Going into a place with a bunch of phonies, that isn’t Marjorie.”

  I hadn’t told Harold about the DVD, but now I did.

  “That’s cruel!” He was furious. “Even worse, it’s like an invitation to death.”

  I hadn’t really thought of it that way, but he was right. When the child said she was waiting, was it an invitation to leave this life behind and join the dead child in another place? It had to have been crafted for Marjorie. But why leave it behind in New Orleans? I still had no answer.

  “The video doesn’t make complete sense. The other footage on the tapes dates back to when the Westins ran the Pleasure Zone in New Orleans. Pre-Katrina, so before 2005.
It could date back as far as 1995, when the Westins started their … business. Mariam’s been dead a lot longer than that.”

  “It’s pure luck you stole the trash bags.” Harold clearly saw my skepticism. “And that you looked at them is a miracle. Anything else interesting?”

  I dodged the question, uncertain how to handle the content of the videos I’d seen. “I’ve had several people tell me that Sherry Westin can speak with the dead. What’s your take on that?”

  “I’ve never met Sherry.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “I do believe some people have a gift, Sarah Booth. Madam Tommeka, for instance. I believe we all have a sixth sense or whatever you want to call it, but most of us blunt our sensitivities. So it stands to reason others have developed theirs.”

  “You think a ghost can be captured on film?” I’d never tried to photograph Jitty. It was somehow a violation.

  “I don’t know.”

  I hadn’t expected Harold to be so open to the idea of communicating with spirits. If he believed it … others might.

  “Haven’t you ever wanted to talk to someone who’s passed on?” he asked.

  I thought of my parents. “Every day.” Now was the time I could tell him about Jitty, but I hesitated. I’d never shared the truth about my heirloom haint with anyone. I was a little afraid if I said anything, she’d simply disappear, as if I’d betrayed her somehow. So I kept silent, wondering if I’d ever have the nerve to tell Graf.

  “Me, too,” Harold said. “I’d love to tell my mother about my life. Maybe get her advice, and thank her and say how much I appreciate the many things she taught me and the time she took with me.”

  “Yeah.” If he didn’t stop, I would get emotional. “But if someone does have a special gift like this, doesn’t it stand to reason they should use it only for good?”

  “One would think, if one were a naïve fool.” Harold patted my hand. “The strongest human drive is greed, Sarah Booth. A few people might be altruistic, but others wouldn’t be able to resist the impulse to use their talent to make money. Obviously, if Sherry is the real deal, she’s yielded to the compulsion to use her abilities as a medium for money, not to help people.”