Bonefire of the Vanities

by Carolyn Haines

  From the aerials I’d studied, I’d learned the guards’ bunker was a mile or so through the woods. I couldn’t help but wonder if Amanda had found any pleasure in flirting with the men quartered so near her.

  The reality of her unnecessary death slammed home. She’d barely been a grown-up, a young woman with dreams. And now she was dead. Why? Had she discovered information that cost her her life? The only way to find out was to get busy. I had a little experience with lock-picking, and this was the perfect opportunity to search room 14, Amanda’s lodgings. Coleman and crime scene techs had combed her quarters, but maybe I’d uncover a clue. Either Amanda had clamped on to a secret or she’d pissed her killer off. It was also possible romance was the motive, even though she’d never mentioned a beau.

  Checking to be sure no one else was up and about, I left the protection of the main house and slipped across the parking lot toward the servants’ billets, taking the same route as the mysterious figure. At the bunkhouse, I eased into the shadows and listened intently. My mysterious intruder might have gone to his or her own room, or could still be lurking around. I had to be careful—and vigilant.

  If Coleman had found evidence in Amanda’s room, he hadn’t shared it with me, which made me believe he’d ended up empty-handed. It wasn’t that I thought I could do a more thorough search than the Sunflower County sheriff, but I might see something he missed. A tiny detail. Men and women valued things differently.

  The crime scene tape across the entrance remained undisturbed, but that didn’t mean the room was empty. I crouched at the window and tried to peer inside. The curtains were drawn tight. The best I could tell was the interior was dark. Step by careful step, I made it to the door—and froze.

  Someone was in the room, rustling around. I pushed the door open a tiny crack and caught sight of a flashlight beam moving around the interior. I drew back into the doorframe of the room next door, praying I wouldn’t coax a whine out of a loose board and alert the searcher of my presence. Who was probing Amanda’s things? Who and why would be of interest to me, and to Coleman.

  There was the sound of an object hitting the floor. Maybe a drawer, or a box. I ducked to the side of the servants’ quarters, and just in time. The light inside room 16 jumped to life. In the same moment, the black-clad figure darted out of Amanda’s room and took cover in a thick shrub of five-foot-high redtops.

  “Is somebody out there?” a male voice asked. One of the security guards stepped onto the porch of room 16 in boxer shorts and nothing else except a gun gripped firmly.

  My lungs burned with the breath I was holding. The guard walked farther out so that he was perfectly backlit. He was a handsome specimen, and the gun told me he meant business. He listened for a moment, then returned inside and flicked off the light.

  I remained totally motionless. The dark-clad figure slipped from the shrubs and ran across the parking lot to the back door of the main house. I could tell it was a woman by her shape, but couldn’t ascertain more.

  I followed her.

  The mudroom was empty, and the old house seemed to sigh, almost as if it were contented to retain yet another secret. The thought pissed me off, and I went through the pantry into the kitchen and finally into the dining room. There was no trace of anyone.

  From what I’d been able to fathom of the house, the guest rooms, some empty, were all on the second floor, with Brandy and Sherry retaining the top floor for themselves. The kitchen, food services, storage, and various offices constituted the east wing, which fed into the employee parking lot. The north wing, or main portion, included the parlors, dining room, spa, library, and meeting rooms. The west wing was unexplored so far by me or Tinkie.

  That’s where I headed.

  As I slinked down the hall, I tried to visualize which guests correlated to the size of the mysterious woman who’d been in Amanda’s room. Amaryllis Dill, or Gretchen, the country music singer came to mind. Both were thin and fit, about five foot five. Amaryllis, though, didn’t strike me as much of a night wanderer. I seriously doubted she owned an all-black garment in her wardrobe. The only clothes I’d seen her wear were floral and frilly.

  The west wing, interestingly enough, was closed off with solid doors that could be locked. To keep someone in or keep others out? Pushing against the oak panels, I was gratified to gain entry on silent hinges.

  I found myself in a carpeted corridor with a half-dozen closed doors, much like the guest rooms upstairs. Very interesting. I was about to continue on when I heard a soft click and creak. I ducked behind a massive cabinet, and just in time. Yumi, wearing a black kimono-type gown, sashayed from a room. She wore black cowboy boots and held something at her side. She went down three doors and knocked softly.

  Palk opened the door as if he’d been standing at it. To my shock, he wore a Hannibal Lecter mask, a lacy red teddy, and a garter belt. Something about the mask struck a chord, but I had no time to think it through.

  Yumi dropped her robe to reveal a black leather breast binder and chaps equipped with handcuffs. She also held a riding crop and used the butt of the handle to push at Palk’s chin.

  “Where is my dinner?” she asked in a threatening voice.

  “For your dining pleasure, I have some fava beans and Chianti,” Palk said.

  “I wouldn’t eat your crap on a bet. Kneel, you dog.” She brought the whip sharply across Palk’s chest. He dropped to his knees. “Crawl.”

  And he did.

  Yumi followed his groveling form into his room and the door closed.

  I wouldn’t have been more stunned if Frankenstein had appeared. Palk and Yumi? My mind recoiled at the images. Satan dancing on a church steeple! Those two were the worst combination of personality, fetishes, psychological wounds, and authority complexes I could imagine.

  I didn’t know if their meeting—in the wee hours of the morning—was purely sexual, business, or monkey business. What I did know was that Palk and Yumi created an unholy alliance of power in Heart’s Desire. And both enjoyed wielding it. Was this the secret Amanda had stumbled upon? The one she’d threatened to reveal? Palk had been with us when Amanda took a tumble, but Yumi was unaccounted for.

  It seemed likely that Yumi was the intruder in Amanda’s room, and if I knew what she was after, I’d have a possible motive for murder. Obviously, Amanda had something Yumi wanted. And badly. Another sex video? But was that really enough to warrant murder? Palk and Yumi were certainly careless enough, flaunting their affair in the hall. If it was such a dangerous secret, why were they risking detection?

  I couldn’t afford to draw the wrong conclusion. I’d been a PI long enough to realize that the obvious wasn’t always, well, obvious. The one conclusion I could put in the “proven” column was that Palk and Yumi had a high kink factor in their relationship.

  Thinking of Palk and Yumi—my mind rebelled. Holy candlesticks! I couldn’t wait to share this with Tinkie.

  I tiptoed to the heavy exit out of the west wing. I didn’t take a breath until I closed it behind me. Yes! I was out of the worst danger of being discovered. Now I had to make it back to the room without getting caught. At least I knew Palk and Yumi were … preoccupied. I cringed involuntarily.

  I turned to head back and stopped. A young girl in a pale blue dress wavered at the end of the hallway. The lighting was dim, but I could see her—and see through her.

  Water dripped onto the polished floor. “Help her. Help my Mommy.” Her voice had an echoey quality, like sound underwater.

  “Mariam?” I inched toward her and she disappeared. When I got to the place she’d been standing, there wasn’t a trace of water, though I’d clearly witnessed it puddling.

  Chill bumps danced over my arms and back as I ran toward the stairs and the safety of Marjorie’s room. The ghost girl hadn’t threatened me, but nonetheless, she’d unnerved me.

  * * *

  I awoke to sharp claws digging into my chest and a terrible weight pressing the oxygen from my lungs. Gulping for air, I
sat bolt upright—to the amusement of Tinkie and Marjorie. They were at the small table near the windows, pouring cups of coffee.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Tinkie said.

  Pluto yawned right in my face. Ah, kitty breath. No joy on earth compares. I pushed him aside and stretched. “Why does Pluto insist on sleeping on top of me?” I asked Marjorie. “He’s your cat.”

  “He likes to spread his love around,” Marjorie answered.

  “You look like warmed-over hell,” Tinkie said, holding out a cup of black coffee. “I went downstairs this morning and ran into Yumi. She looked almost as bad as you do. You two have a tête-à-tête?”

  I pulled the covers over my head at the thought. “Satan stick me with a pitchfork!” The duvet muffled my words.

  Sleep made Tinkie frisky. “Marjorie and I have nicknamed Yumi ‘the Dragon.’ I think she might be capable of breathing fire.”

  I peeked out. “If that’s true, I’ll bet she scorched Palk’s boxers last night.”

  That got their attention. Before they could question me, I continued. “She was searching Amanda’s room last night.” I stretched nonchalantly. “I didn’t get much sleep last night, because I followed her.”

  “Did she find anything?” Tinkie asked.

  “I don’t think so. A guard woke up and cut her search short.”

  “Thank goodness you weren’t caught,” Marjorie said.

  I forced myself out of bed and poured some coffee. Pluto circled my legs, indicating that he, too, wanted morning refreshment. I poured heavy cream for him in a saucer, which he tucked into as fast as his little sandpaper tongue could slither in and out. No wonder the cat was fat.

  “It was close. Something else interesting happened.” I toyed with them. I couldn’t help it. This gossip was the juiciest yet.

  “What?” Tinkie put down her coffee cup and rose to her feet, hands on her hips. “You are a torment, Sarah Booth Delaney. You are holding out, making us beg.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then tell us! Please!” Marjorie showed more life than she had since I’d met her.

  “Yumi and Palk had a little assignation last night. At three A.M. In Palk’s room. She wore cowboy boots and leather chaps and brought a riding crop. He wore a Hannibal Lecter mask, a red teddy, and stockings.

  Marjorie’s eyes widened. Tinkie burst into laughter, but then her lips turned down at the corners.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “It’s the mask. There’s something…” She concentrated. “I can’t make the connection. I’ll think about it.”

  She’d given me just enough push to make the link. “The sex video! The man in the mask! Palk must have been affiliated with the Westins when they were in New Orleans. He’s a longtime … servant.”

  Marjorie’s gasp indicated distress. “Palk worked with the Westins in New Orleans?”

  “We can’t be certain,” Tinkie said. “But it would seem so.”

  “And Palk and Yumi have aligned themselves?” she continued.

  “I just don’t see those two together romantically,” Tinkie said. “When I do, I feel sick.”

  “Do you think they killed Amanda?” Marjorie asked.

  “I don’t know.” I tried never to jump to a conclusion by putting blame on a suspect without solid evidence. What I had was suppositional, at best.

  “What if Chasley was responsible for Amanda’s fall?” Marjorie stirred her coffee without looking up.

  “Why would Chasley kill an assistant chef who was leaving the compound, anyway?”

  Marjorie rubbed her eyes with her hand. “That was wrong of me. I have to stop it. I can’t accuse him without proof.” She looked genuinely contrite. “One thing I hope is that whatever Mariam tells me, it clears Chasley. I don’t want to die having lost my daughter and my son.”

  “A good point for all of us to keep in mind,” I said. I needed to tell Tinkie about the ghost I’d seen in the hallway, but I wasn’t about to bring the subject up in front of Marjorie. It would send her into a tizzy.

  “I’ll have breakfast with the others.” Marjorie made her announcement and pulled a summer capri set from her closet. “I can help you. I’ll cause a scene. Something that will send Brandy and Sherry over the edge. You two should check Amanda’s room and see if you can find anything.”

  Surprise must have registered on my face, because Tinkie laughed out loud. “Marjorie reads a lot of mysteries.” She pointed at a stack of paperbacks. “Carolyn Hart is as big a cat lover as Marjorie. And you should have heard Marjorie going on and on about Dorothy L. and Agatha, these two cat characters.”

  “Pluto adores it when I read aloud to him about those cats,” Marjorie said. “Now, you two scat. I’m going to give a diva performance that will turn the whole household upside down.”

  * * *

  The first thing Tinkie and I had to accomplish was pilfering the key to Amanda’s room. After Coleman’s search, Palk had ordered the room locked—which hadn’t deterred the midnight stranger. That one fact convinced me Yumi was indeed the intruder. She’d obtained a key from Palk. By hook or by crook. Another cringe overtook me at the thought. I had to stop picturing the two of them in flagrante delicto. It was driving me nuts and giving me a twitch. Even Marjorie’s mind was more on the case than mine.

  And the case was where my mind needed to be.

  Palk took his breakfast in the staff dining room. I went there while Tinkie went out the front door with the intention of walking around the grounds. Amanda’s car had to be on the premises and might yield pertinent information.

  Palk was seated at the table with a crisp linen cloth. A pot of tea steeped at one side of a plate of unbuttered, blackened toast. What a pretender he was. All proper and starched, except in his sexual preferences. He probably wore steel-wool drawers.

  He’d removed his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. No doubt to keep it free of crumbs. I’d seen him pocket the household keys. With any luck, they’d be in his coat. Now all I had to do was wait for Marjorie to cruise into the dining room and create her promised distraction. And I didn’t have long to wait.

  “Where is Palk?” Marjorie demanded in a strident tone. There was the clatter of cutlery as people dropped their forks.

  “What’s wrong?” Brandy asked. “Mrs. Littlefield, whatever is wrong? You look like you’re about to faint.”

  “I demand to see Palk. Last night, I caught him in the hallway, lurking around my door. Had it not been for my loyal servants, he might have raped me!”

  I had the benefit of catching Palk’s reaction. He paled and slowly rose. For a moment he remained motionless.

  “There must be some mistake,” Brandy said. “Palk doesn’t fraternize with my guests. He knows better. That’s a strict violation of the rules.”

  “It isn’t your damn rules he wanted to violate!” Marjorie put her whole heart into the performance. “I demand he be brought before me. Now.”

  Visibly shaken, Palk dashed toward the dining room. The staff and I remained totally silent so we could eavesdrop. I had to hand it to Marjorie. She’d come up with a plot guaranteed to get results.

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” Palk said. “I was nowhere near your room last evening or at any time, other than to bring your son up or to announce a meal.”

  “Prove it.”

  Good for Marjorie! She knew he was with Yumi and would never own up to sexual peccadilloes in front of Brandy Westin and the other staff. She had him over a barrel, and judging from her voice, she barely contained her glee.

  “I don’t have to prove anything.” Palk stumbled over his words.

  As he searched for plausible excuses, I searched his coat, found the keys, and hauled ass out the back servants’ door. Palk was on his own at the inquisition. I’d worry about returning the keys after I did my search.

  Tinkie wasn’t visible in the parking lot, so I ducked under the crime scene tape and unlocked the door.

  The draperies
were pulled tight, leaving the room with the dimmest of light. I hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight, but I did have gloves. Not the thin latex used at crime scenes but the thick rubber ones used for cleaning. They’d work fine, though.

  The room was Spartan. The double bed, a table beside it, a dresser, and a desk. Old grocery receipts and tissues, along with socks, shoes, blouses, and slacks—the Heart’s Desire uniform—were scattered around the floor. Had Yumi had time to do all of this? Or had Amanda abandoned everything that tied her to Heart’s Desire and scattered her belongings about the room, telling anyone who saw it she was leaving angry?

  Or scared.

  I studied the chaos to see if I could tell which emotion.

  A drawer was pulled out and dumped on the floor. A tube of toothpaste, almost empty, old hair curlers, crumbling eye makeup—nothing Amanda valued enough to pack. But this was likely the thing I’d heard hit the floor when Yumi was searching the room.

  So what was she seeking? An item that could be tucked in a shallow drawer. So it was smaller than a bread box. I stopped. To my knowledge, I’d never seen a bread box. Not even a photo of one. My aunt Loulane had often repeated that saying, and I’d never stopped to think what it really meant.

  A click distracted me.

  I whirled around. A white-haired old lady sporting the strangest hat sat on the foot of the bed, knitting needles chattering like two possessed imps.

  “Oh, dear,” the woman said, “this doesn’t look good. It reminds me of the time the milkman’s granddaughter disappeared from the McWhorters’ country house. Her room was a mess and everyone thought she’d had a disagreement with young Charlotte McWhorter. But that wasn’t the case. No, it was much more dire.”

  The voice was thin and reedy, and the woman never lifted her eyes from her knitting. She was familiar, though. I’d seen her before. Who was Jitty pretending to be this time? I refused to give her the satisfaction of asking. Then it hit me.

  “Miss Jane Marple!” I had it. The Agatha Christie spinster who solved mysteries in the English village of St. Mary Mead. Miss Marple was a staple of the mystery crowd, and her prowess as a sleuth spanned decades.