Bonefire of the Vanities

by Carolyn Haines

  His hands clenched and I had a split-second fantasy of Kyle landing a fist on Palk’s arrogant chin. The butler brought out the violence in me. “Did she tell you what happened to make her quit?”

  “No. We didn’t have time. It’s against the rules for employees to date, so we had to sneak around late at night. This came up all of a sudden.” He looked at Tinkie making googly-eyes at the other guards only fifty yards away, and hardness settled into his features.

  “You can’t blame yourself.” He would. My words offered no healing balm.

  He put both hands on his knees, as if he meant to steady himself. “She called me when she was almost at the gate. She was crying hard. She said she had to tell someone at Heart’s Desire something—she couldn’t leave until she spoke with one of the guests or maybe a staffer. She thought someone was in danger.” He frowned. “She left her cell phone at the base of the tree where we used to meet.”

  “She had a cell phone?” Good news at last.

  “I got it for her after they took hers. She kept it hidden. We used it to make dates, you know, text each other. She was afraid to try to sneak it past the guards. In case they searched her on the way out. They’d be able to see we’d been communicating. She was afraid she’d get me in trouble, so she left it. I retrieved it after I heard she was … dead.”

  “Could I see it?” I asked.

  He looked around, but no one was paying any attention to us. Tinkie had the other guards gamboling about her like puppies. From inside his shirt, Kyle brought out the cell phone. “When she didn’t ever leave, I thought she’d changed her mind. It wasn’t until I heard … You can keep the phone. I don’t need it anymore.”

  “I’ll bring it back,” I promised. He seemed so dismal that I added, “I’m sorry, Kyle. I liked Amanda, too. If someone did push her down the stairs, we’ll find out who. Do you have any ideas?”

  “No. Palk’s an ass, but not a murderer. When you find the bastard who did this, I want ten minutes alone with him.”

  I couldn’t promise that. Coleman would never allow it. I rose slowly. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Don’t come back here,” he said. “They know everything that goes on. Once is happenstance. Twice is a reason for them to investigate. I don’t want to be fired—or worse—until I find out who killed Amanda.”

  “Thanks.” I took his words to heart as I joined Tinkie. She bade her admirers farewell, and we headed back to the big house. I was eager to check out the phone, but I didn’t even want to try until we were somewhere no one could see us.

  * * *

  Halfway down the wooded trail, I stopped to examine Amanda’s phone. The only calls on it were to Kyle. Those kids stayed up all night messaging each other. Young love.

  “That’s just heartbreaking,” Tinkie said. She had lost a lot of her sass as we read the sweet notes between Kyle and Amanda. “He texted her twenty times the night before she died.” She shook her head as if to dislodge the pain. “Man, that’s just too hard.”

  The texts yielded nothing new. The phone had a camera, so we plowed through the photos. Most were of Amanda, dressed up for a rendezvous with her lover. A few sneaky shots of Yumi showed her working in the kitchen—or fussing at someone. Several were photos of the interior of Heart’s Desire.

  “There’s nothing of any use,” Tinkie said. I’d told her what Kyle had related to me, and we’d both gotten our hopes up the phone might reveal something.

  At last I came across what looked like a blurry picture of Yumi. I pulled it up. To my surprise, it was a video. Yumi was in the kitchen, and judging by the light, it was nighttime. I couldn’t tell what she was doing—cradling her ear? I clicked the video into action.

  “I will take care of this matter,” Yumi said into a cell phone, and there was iron in her voice. “I always finish my mission. No one cracks the whip at me. I crack the whip.”

  I had no doubts about that statement.

  Yumi continued her rant. “I will handle this gnat, do not worry. Your political career is safe as long as you leave me to my job.”

  The sound of a dish rattling caused Yumi to whirl around. The picture went crazy, then black, and I realized Amanda had slipped the phone into her pocket.

  “What are you doing here?” Yumi demanded. “Why are you in my kitchen, little piggy? Here for a midnight treat?”

  “I want baking soda and a lemon,” Amanda said. “I have heartburn, and those Nazis on the gate won’t let me go off the grounds to get some Prevacid. My granny used to make a lemon whiz when she had heartburn and I thought I’d give it a try.”

  “You’re here to spy on me, aren’t you?” Yumi was furious.

  “Why would I care what you do?” Amanda’s voice quivered.

  “Who sent you?”

  “Nobody sent me. I came for baking soda.”

  “Get it and get out.”

  There were rustling noises, then footsteps as Amanda retreated. The phone went dead. She’d turned it off.

  “No wonder she hated it here,” Tinkie said.

  “No wonder she didn’t want to try to smuggle this phone past the gate.”

  “Do you think Yumi killed her?” Tinkie asked. “What could her mission be? She’s a chef.”

  “She’s the best suspect we have right now.” I had a grand thought. “There are a couple of photos of Yumi in the kitchen. Let’s e-mail one to Coleman. Maybe he can do a background check on this crazy chef and see who she really is.”

  Tinkie gave me a hug. “Some days you surprise even me with your mastery of technology.”

  Without further ado, I zapped the best photo of Yumi to the sheriff’s office with a note and a question. “What have you found?” It was good to be in communication with the rest of the world again.

  * * *

  Tinkie and I returned to the big house to find Marjorie nearing a hissy fit. Clothes had been torn from hangers and thrown about the floor. “There’s a séance tonight,” she said. “Thank goodness. I was afraid we wouldn’t have another.”

  My conscience pinged—I’d failed to tell her of the “visit” I received from a young girl who greatly resembled her daughter, the eerie concern the young girl had expressed. The ghost of Mariam—if it was Mariam at all—bothered me. Why was this spirit presenting itself to me instead of to Marjorie? If Marjorie was in danger, why didn’t Mariam talk to her?

  In my dealings with the spirit world I’d learned a few things. One of the most important: Jitty might devil me, but she was always on my side. Mariam appeared to me, a stranger. Water dripped from her, as if she were forever caught between the Mississippi River and the present. If Mariam was in Heart’s Desire, why not communicate directly with her mother?

  And another thing bothered me about the ghostly presence I’d seen. Jitty’s spectacular wardrobe spiked envy in me. Not so with the dripping ghost of my vision or on the DVD. Why was the ghostly little girl still wearing the dress she’d drowned in?

  Was it because Mariam died suddenly and unexpectedly, and somehow was trapped in that moment? Was it because she was pissed off? Jitty had embraced death—and her role as resident haint of Dahlia House. Was it possible a spirit’s ultimate end was determined by attitude? That hardly seemed appropriate.

  The point was, I had questions and no answers. And time to kill, until Coleman showed up or the séance began.

  “I need a walk,” I announced.

  “You just returned from a walk,” Marjorie pointed out.

  For a moment I was speechless. It sounded like she thought I was really her maid. “Tinkie is here and I need to check something.”

  “She is the more loyal of you two,” Marjorie said, annoyed.

  Saint Francis on a trapeze! She was miffed because I wasn’t babysitting her. “I’ll be back.” I did my best interpretation of the Terminator.

  “Watch out for ghosts,” Tinkie said, unable to suppress a smile.

  I didn’t bother with a response but went out the door and along the hallway. A
t the first floor, I squeezed behind a decorative screen as Palk, with a half-dozen maids parading behind like chicklets, zipped past.

  I ducked into the spa, where Amaryllis Dill—or so I assumed by the yellow towel wrapped around her head and the yellow eye mask—lounged in a mud bath. Okay, not my cup of tea. I could manage dirty on my own.

  The two country singers were working out on elliptical trainers. I took a moment to appreciate their athletic abilities. They were no slouches. Maybe they needed the level of fitness to perform onstage. Dancing and singing could be pretty taxing, as I remembered from my days in musicals.

  The Addlesons were nowhere to be seen, but there were several attendees working in the spa I’d never met. The staff at Heart’s Desire must cost the Westins a pretty penny.

  I backed out and headed for the servants’ stairs to the basement. I wanted a word with the laundress. Stella had worked in the basement for a number of years. I didn’t believe she was ignorant of all of Heart’s Desire’s secrets.

  The laundry was empty. No Stella. Even the washers and dryers were quiet. The basement, in fact, ached with silence. Or maybe my nerves were stretched to the point of hypersensitivity. I couldn’t help but think of Amanda.

  When something in my pocket buzzed, I jumped so high, I struck my head on the doorframe. It took a moment for me to realize it was the cell phone Coleman had brought me. I’d wisely put it on vibrate.

  Stifling the curses that wanted to leap from my lips, I answered.

  “Hello, dah-link,” Cece said. “Harold and I have been busy little beavers on your behalf. We have news!”

  14

  Cece’s voice, low and well modulated, gave me a wealth of details about the property of Heart’s Desire. Her original report contained the sordid gossip. The financial history of Heart’s Desire, acquired thanks to Harold, was equally interesting.

  “The house changed hands a number of times,” Cece related. “Three owners defaulted and walked away. The property is rumored to be cursed. Many Layland residents simply won’t go near the place. This has worked to the Westins’ advantage. Most people had forgotten about the old place—until Brandy and Sherry showed up. They’ve kept talk quiet and limited gossip by keeping all of the employees shut up inside. The death of the young chef has changed all that. The old talk of curses has resurfaced.”

  “Cursed?” That was a new one. “Not haunted?”

  “Both, actually.” Her enthusiasm was hard to miss. Cece was pumped at the prospect of a haunted house that was also cursed. A death—most likely a murder—was the perfect hook to hang the story on. Now, this was good copy. In fact, the whole Heart’s Desire episode was an embarrassment of riches from a journalist’s point of view.

  I did believe in ghosts, but I didn’t believe in curses. People were superstitious. They often made their lives much harder than necessary by believing in crazy notions.

  “Thanks, Cece. I don’t understand how this fits together, but this is a significant piece of the puzzle. What about the country music singers?”

  “Lola Monee and Gretchen Waller—they’re legit. At least they have top hits in the country market. They should be well off, based on the big names who’ve cut their songs.”

  Good to know. “And our chef, the mysterious Yumi Kato?”

  “She worked in D.C. before coming to Mississippi. She was in the White House in 2003. There’s not much of a trail to follow before that. She defected in the early 2000s. Harold and I don’t have international contacts. At least not in North Korea.”

  “North Korea?” Amanda had called her a communist bitch. What had Amanda discovered about the chef?

  “Right. Her birth country. Because her life prior to arriving in the U.S. is such a blank, we figure she has a political connection. Maybe granted asylum. She left the White House under a cloud. Seems she chased the president’s dog with a meat cleaver.”

  “There couldn’t be two chefs with a fondness for meat cleavers. This has to be her.”

  “Seems the dog slipped into the kitchen and stole a roast off the counter. Yumi took it personally and chased the dog, making threats. The First Lady nearly had a heart attack and Yumi was dismissed.”

  I had to laugh. Yumi’s heart softened not a whit for man or beast. “Thanks, Cece. Have you talked to Coleman?”

  “He’s a hard man to track down. He’s been chewing on some bone he won’t drop long enough to answer a phone call from me.”

  There was something in her voice. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but some little something gave me pause. “Are you up to something?”

  “Not me. See ya, Sarah Booth. My other line is ringing.”

  I put away the cell phone. I’d been away from the second floor too long. Even though I was doing most of the housework, Tinkie had performed the bulk of the babysitting and likely needed rescue from Marjorie, who was a tricky cardsharp.

  Marjorie sometimes acted dotty and played the sympathy card, but when she was into rummy, she was cold-blooded and ruthless. She’d already taken Tinkie for close to two hundred bucks.

  * * *

  Marjorie insisted on a nap, but at eight o’clock, she was ready for the séance. Sherry had changed the séance time to nine o’clock, and she’d relocated to the front parlor.

  When we arrived, Palk and his minions had brought the round table from the basement. Sherry took her place at the head, Brandy at the foot. The others selected seats, and once again, Tinkie and I stood against a wall behind Marjorie’s chair. Palk would never consider allowing us to sit.

  My curiosity was aroused when Chasley was not in attendance. I wondered if he was still in the house. Marjorie, too, searched around the room. Before she could ask a question about her son, Sherry spoke up.

  “I know last night we were all dealt a terrible shock. Amanda’s death is an awful, awful loss. I want you to know I won’t contact Amanda. Often a spirit who has just crossed is disoriented and upset. To bring her back here, to Heart’s Desire, after what happened, would be unwise.”

  Tinkie and I exchanged a glance. Was Sherry worried about what Amanda might reveal?

  The participants at the table held hands. Palk dimmed the lights, and Tinkie and I edged closer together. Earlier, as Marjorie napped, I’d had a moment on the balcony to share Cece’s findings with Tink. Now she was determined to dig up more information. Tinkie, who seemed to be the epitome of a ditzy blonde, had a real head for figures. She could tally up a column of digits in a heartbeat. And she understood how money worked—a body of knowledge I’d never managed to get a grip on.

  While I was woolgathering, I failed to listen to what was happening at the table. I figured some new disaster would strike to prevent a séance. I’d come to conclude Sherry was about as much a medium as I was. She could hypnotize with the best of them, but she wasn’t dishing up any dead people.

  Against my will, I caught the cadence of Sherry’s voice. She spoke softly but with passion. She called upon the spirits to cooperate, to breach the veil separating the world of mortal and immortal. I was drawn into a state of relaxation despite my resolve not to be tranced by Sherry again. Fight as I did, I saw the scene she described—the golden light, a wooden door, the handle gripped in my hand, the portal opening into bright white light—

  Tinkie’s sudden grip on my fingers almost made me cry out. The toe of her shoe in my instep stopped me. Lucky she was wearing her maid brogans with the soft leather toe. She indicated the curtains by the window.

  The sheers moved slowly, as if stirred by a gentle wind. No one else seemed to notice. They all sat with their eyes squinched tight, concentrating on the chant Sherry muttered.

  But it wasn’t at the window the entity appeared. It was across the room, in the doorway. She wore a brocade gown, and her bearing was regal.

  “Who summons me to this plane?” the woman asked in English heavily tinged with a French accent.

  I thought the people at the table would stand up and run in all directions.

 
“Remain seated!” Sherry commanded them. And they obeyed. Amaryllis cowered slightly but didn’t bolt and run.

  “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” Sherry asked.

  “You are so common, you don’t recognize your empress?” was the reply.

  “It’s Joséphine! It’s Joséphine Bonaparte!” Shimmer Addleson tried to shake free of her husband’s and Sherry’s hands, but they clung harder and kept her in her chair.

  “If you break the circle, she will leave!” Brandy whispered savagely. “You’ll never hear the answer to your questions.”

  That was as effective as a bolt in the head. Shimmer dropped into her chair.

  “Why do you bother me?” the spirit asked again. “The journey here is tiring, and I find the … atmosphere unpleasant.” She glided around the opulent room with a scowl of distaste.

  I studied the entity as carefully as I could with Tinkie climbing on me like I was a tree. She was quiet in her panic, but she was about to melt into my skin, she was so close.

  “A distant relative is here,” Sherry said softly. “She needs your counsel, Queen … uh, Empress Bonaparte.”

  The spirit seemed mollified by Sherry’s obsequious tone. “Does she need to know how to charm her lover? That is my specialty. Napoléon was a man amongst men, but I tamed him. I made him beg for me. Ask me any questions about the art of love, and I will answer.”

  Shimmer laughed nervously, but a warning glare from Sherry quelled her. “No, Your Highness. It isn’t advice on love I seek. I want to create a fragrance worthy of your name. I need help with my cosmetic line. I want to call the perfume Joséphine’s Potion … if you don’t mind.”

  Rich laughter filled the room, and the entity drew closer. I could see the creaminess of her shoulders and chest, the shine of her hair. Was it really Joséphine Bonaparte, famous wife of an emperor? Or was this a trick? Because I was forbidden to move—by the Westins and because Tinkie was clinging to my waist and shoulders—I couldn’t explore the entity.