Bonefire of the Vanities

by Carolyn Haines

  “You are a cheeky thing. I shall report this incident to Mrs. Littlefield.” Palk aimed a finger at Graf’s luggage. “You might help Mr. Graf’s man take the bags up to his suite. I gather Mrs. Littlefield’s employment is rather … sedentary. A little exercise would be good for your waistline.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.” I stopped myself from saluting. It was particularly hard to swallow Palk’s domineering attitude in front of the man I loved, but as my aunt Loulane would say, “In for a penny, in for a pound.” My job description read maid and I had to fulfill the role. It didn’t escape my notice Oscar was about to bust a gut laughing, either. Oh, he would pay. I bent to pick up a suitcase. A loud, shrill scream echoed down the hall from the spa.

  “What on earth!” Palk set out toward the commotion. Someone was in line for a reprimand. He pivoted and spoke to my fiancé. “I assure you, Mr. Graf, Heart’s Desire isn’t normally so filled with bedlam and sassy maids. I’ll handle this and return to be sure you’re settled in your room. Miss Booth, the Lotus Suite. Chop, chop!”

  Forgetting my vow to create new curses, I mouthed the F word followed by a big you, but I hefted two bags as another brain-jolting scream erupted.

  “Heads will roll!” Palk hurried away, and I was left alone in the foyer with my fiancé and Tinkie’s husband.

  “What are you doing here?” I whispered.

  Graf took the luggage from my hands and dropped them. “That’s not the greeting I was hoping for.”

  “Seriously, how did you get in here?” I couldn’t believe it.

  “Oscar and Harold concocted an invitation for me. I’m a gambler and a big investor. Sir Desmond Graf.” His smile was filled with mischief. “They gave me quite a cover.”

  “This is crazy.” In a good way. I clutched his hand tightly.

  “I was hoping for a little more … enthusiastic greeting,” he said.

  I needed no further invitation. I hurled myself at him. My hands moved over his chest and up to his face. “I am so glad to see you.” I closed my eyes and traced the contours.

  “I’m not Braille,” he whispered against my ear, sending chills along my spine.

  “I’ve missed you.” My kiss told him of my loneliness and fear, and of my desire. I hungered for him. For the past days, I’d held my feelings at bay, afraid the love we shared was over. Now, with my arms circling his neck and his hair twined in my fingers, I allowed myself to feel the full measure of my love for him. The physical need for his touch was crippling, but even stronger was the tide of emotions.

  Graf’s lips moved along my cheek and down my throat.

  A clearing throat brought me back to the present. “Where’s Tinkie?” Oscar asked softly.

  I waved a hand toward the stairs. “Periwinkle Room, second floor, to the left at the landing. Hurry! She saw you arrive.” I was relatively certain she’d used the back servants’ staircase to return to Marjorie’s room.

  Oscar needed no second invitation. He sprinted up the stairs.

  I pushed against Graf’s chest, putting distance between us. We were completely exposed. Anyone could walk into the foyer and see us. “We can’t do this here,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, we can.” He kissed me again, long and demanding.

  There were things I had to tell him, to make it right between us, to let him know I never stopped considering his feelings, even when I worked on a case. “Graf, I’m so sorry. I—”

  He put a finger on my lips. “No. No apologies. I was wrong.” He swept me into his arms and carried me to a more secluded place beneath the stairs. He pressed me against the wall, where we were hidden by a huge cabinet. “I love you, Sarah Booth. I love you just the way you are. Hardheaded, smart, determined to find the truth, protecting the underdog. I love you.”

  “You do?” His words were a heady mixture.

  “I owe a lot to a Sunflower County lawman and an old, contrary country doctor.”

  “Coleman and Doc.”

  “Them’s the varmints. They double-teamed me. Doc warned me you were entrenched in a way of life your parents taught you and that I’d better not try to tamper with it. Coleman made me see I was trying to control you. My actions were wrong, even if my intentions were good.”

  “Hush up and kiss me.”

  And he did. Long and deep, a kiss that spanned time and place, from our apartment in New York City to the beach of Costa Rica and the bedroom of Dahlia House. Graf, too, was part of my life. We’d grown apart and back together, and beneath the surface of any argument was this tidal pull of passion. I allowed myself a long, blissful moment; then I strong-armed some space between us.

  The foyer of Heart’s Desire was not appropriate for our reunion. We deserved privacy and time.

  A terrible commotion echoed down the long hallway from the spa. Even with Graf in my arms, wanting me as much as I wanted him, I listened to another shrill scream and the sound of sobbing from the spa.

  “Go,” he said. “To quote Coleman, you’re drawn to a dead body like a fly to a turd.”

  I kissed him again, joy bubbling inside me. “That sounds a lot like Coleman.”

  “He’ll never get over losing you,” Graf said. “He knows that. But he loves you enough to want you to be happy.”

  I smiled up at him, but a tiny little piece of my heart broke loose. I loved Graf. No doubt about it. But Coleman owned a portion of my heart as well. My job also claimed a part of me. “I have to—”

  “I know.” He stepped away. “I’ll see you later. In the Lotus Suite. I’m going to make you forget everything except my touch.”

  I could hardly wait.

  * * *

  I had gone no farther than the foyer when a young woman burst through. Her hands and body were covered in red, and she was screaming like she was dying. Palk was on her heels like a bloodhound.

  “Block her!” Palk ordered me. “Misty! Misty!” Palk grabbed her shoulders and gave her a hard shake. He frog-marched her out of the foyer and back toward the spa. “Snap out of it! You have to tell me what happened.”

  Chasing after them, I blew Graf a kiss. Before Palk could close and lock the spa doors, I pushed through. Palk was green around the gills, and once I looked past him, I understood why. Amaryllis Dill, yellow turban covering her hair and a yellow facial mask on her face, floated in a bathtub of bloody mud. A red arterial spray covered the wall beside the tub.

  “Cromwell on a broomstick,” I said softly. “Her throat’s been cut from ear to ear.” I’d heard the expression all my life but never visualized it. Someone really wanted Amaryllis dead. She’d been right to be worried about her safety.

  “Get out of here,” Palk said to me. “Now.” He held Misty in one cruel hand and pointed the other at the door. “Go!”

  “We have to call Sheriff Peters.” I had no intention of leaving Palk alone with a crime scene.

  “You aren’t calling anyone.” Palk reached for my shoulder but reconsidered, and a good thing. I might be a maid, but nobody manhandled me.

  “I quit,” Misty sobbed. She repeated it louder. Then she glared at Palk and screamed it. “I quit! I’m not putting up with your shit another minute. I am out of here!”

  “Stop that nonsense.” Palk assisted her, with some force, to a chair, where he planted her. “Calm down and tell me what happened. Stop sniveling and shrieking and speak clearly!”

  By sheer force of intimidation, Palk pressured Misty to gather her emotions. She grasped the seat of the chair with both hands. “She came in the spa and wanted the mud bath. I told her she couldn’t use Ms. Dill’s bath items, but she said she wasn’t walking all the way back upstairs. She said Ms. Dill wouldn’t care. She entered the tub, and I went to the supply room to collect the oils for her hands and feet. I was gone five minutes. No more. When I came back, she was … dead.”

  Palk looked from Misty to the dead woman in the tub. “That isn’t Amaryllis Dill?”

  Misty lowered her head into her hands. “I told her she had to use the bath tow
els and wraps provided for her, but she told me to leave her alone, that she’d paid to be here and she meant to get every benefit.”

  I sidestepped Palk and pushed up the head wrap on the body. Instead of blond, the hair beneath the wrap was brunette. I lifted the eye mask and stared into the wide-open gray eyes of Lola Monee, country music songwriter.

  * * *

  Sitting in a corner of the spa, I waited for Coleman to arrive, an ironic twist since my intention had been to keep the crime scene safe from Palk. Now he refused to let me leave. He was a master at embargoing gossip—and keeping me from the delight of amore. Graf was upstairs, waiting for me. I would have spent the time with him while I waited for Coleman to arrive, had Palk not decided I might call in the tabloid press.

  I wasn’t cold to Lola’s death, far from it, but Coleman wouldn’t appreciate my mucking around in his crime scene. There was absolutely nothing I could do until Coleman and his techs did their jobs.

  And I had missed Graf. I’d failed to acknowledge, even to myself, how intensely I’d felt his absence.

  A hubbub outside the spa proved to be Gretchen Waller attempting to gain access. Palk fended her off with a mixture of firmness and kindness I’d never seem him display.

  “What happened to Lola?” Gretchen demanded. “She should have been out of there twenty minutes ago.”

  “Please go back to your room. Please. For your own sake.” Palk refused to let her in, undoubtedly for the best. It was a gruesome murder scene.

  Gretchen was scared and angry. “Listen, you pompous ass, I’m going to call in the feds! Our songs are very popular with the director of the FBI. If you don’t open this door, I’ll call him right now. I want to know my partner is okay. Let me talk to her.”

  The FBI had no authority here. Gretchen’s threats were toothless. The homicide fell squarely in the jurisdiction of Sunflower County Sheriff Coleman Peters.

  I thought his name and he appeared in the doorway with Deputy DeWayne Dattilo at his side. DeWayne had put on about twenty pounds since he’d started eating three squares a day at Millie’s Café, and it dawned on me he was there for more than biscuits and coffee. He was sweet on one of Millie’s waitresses.

  Behind DeWayne were two forensic technicians.

  “Sarah Booth,” Coleman said, nodding as he surveyed the scene. “Everyone else clear out and let the crime scene technicians do their job.”

  “Surely you don’t mean to have that maid in here and everyone else must leave?” Palk looked flummoxed.

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Coleman said.

  Palk left in a huff, the spa employees in tow. Misty was crying again. Her wild moment of independence was gone. Coleman slowed her with a gentle hand on her wrist. “There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen,” he said kindly. “Wait for me there. I’ll need to ask a few questions.”

  “Not the kitchen!” She looked terrified. “Yumi hates it when we hang around the kitchen.”

  “Then in your room. I’ll be there shortly.” He closed the door after she was gone and went to examine the body. He didn’t touch anything, just looked for a good three minutes. He sat down on a stool across from the massage table where I perched. “Are you okay?”

  “Two deaths in two days. Not the type of statistics I like racking up.”

  “Two murders. Amanda’s death wasn’t accidental. Doc Sawyer says she was struck in the head.”

  I’d suspected as much, but it was still hard to hear. I told him what I’d learned and handed over Amanda’s cell phone with the strange recording of the chef. “She did have a boyfriend here. Have you talked with Kyle?”

  “Yeah, I know his family. He showed up voluntarily this morning and made a statement. He didn’t have a lot of nice things to say about the work situation at Heart’s Desire. Bottom line, though, he doesn’t have a clue what happened to Amanda, which is probably a good thing. If he finds out who’s responsible, he says he’ll hurt them.”

  “And I wouldn’t blame him.” Coleman had to uphold the law, but I wasn’t a sworn law officer, and I understood the desire—and temptation—for physical retribution. Sometimes revenge was the sweetest nectar. “Do you think it’s a coincidence the murders started as soon as Chasley was on the premises?”

  “I don’t know.” Coleman walked over to Lola’s lifeless body as the techs snapped photographs. “I’ll know more when I run a full background check on her.”

  “Cece confirmed she’s a country music songwriter. Big time.” Another tidbit came to mind. “She’s wearing the spa towel and mask for Amaryllis Dill. The killer might have thought it was Amaryllis.” I told him about her fear that someone meant to harm her. “And Cece couldn’t find a thing on Amaryllis Dill, except she’s a dance teacher in D.C.”

  “Heart’s Desire seems to be a pit of deception and danger.” Coleman rolled his shoulders to relax the tension. “I think you and Tinkie and Mrs. Littlefield should leave.”

  “Graf and Oscar just arrived. And thank you.” I wanted to say a lot more, but now wasn’t the time.

  “If only Marjorie would consent to pack up, I’d be happy to call it quits.”

  “You’re too hardheaded to abandon her.”

  It was a statement, not a question. “I’m afraid if we leave her alone, she’ll do something tragic. One foot is always mired in a big pit of depression.”

  “Like your aunt Loulane used to say, ‘Money can’t buy happiness.’”

  “Does everyone quote my aunt?” I asked.

  “Every chance we get. Now, let’s see what the techs can tell us.”

  16

  It was a long day, and I chafed at the thought of Graf waiting for me in the Lotus Suite. I visualized him, reclined on the bed, pining. It helped me block out the horror of what was happening around me.

  It wasn’t hard to eavesdrop on Coleman, DeWayne, and the techs. Their findings were preliminary, but they felt Lola had not struggled. Someone had slipped behind her, grasped her chin, and sliced across her throat with a sure stroke. The inference was the killer had been hiding in the spa area and had acted without hesitation. Whoever had claimed Lola’s life had entered the spa, murdered her, and departed in under five minutes, based on Misty’s insistence that she’d been solo in the spa.

  The consensus of opinion pointed to blood loss, a result of the wound, as the cause of death. Based on the angle of the cut, Coleman believed the killer was right-handed, not a lot of help since the majority of people were. And all unverified until the forensic evidence had been gathered and examined.

  Lola’s body was removed and taken to Sunflower County Hospital, where Doc would perform an autopsy. Forensics were always a lawman’s best ally, but I wasn’t certain what else, if anything, Lola’s body could tell us. She’d gone to the spa to relax, and now she was dead.

  While DeWayne questioned the staff and guests, Coleman allowed me to tag along for the interview with Misty.

  She’d pulled herself together, tendered her resignation, and was eager to pack her things as soon as Coleman gave permission. She would stay with a cousin in Zinnia, she said. Her story remained consistent. She didn’t see or hear anyone enter the spa; she didn’t know of anyone who might want to harm Lola or anyone else on the premises of Heart’s Desire.

  DeWayne’s interviews indicated solid alibis for the guests, who were all gathered in the parlor for the financial summit seminar led by Brandy. Sherry had taken migraine medication and was comatose for all practical purposes. The waiters, maids, and chefs had been busy with daily chores. No one was unaccounted for, yet any number of people could have slipped away long enough to slice Lola’s throat.

  The guards reported no entry through the front gate. It was as if a ghost had materialized to murder at Heart’s Desire.

  “Someone is lying,” Coleman said to me as we waited for Gretchen Waller to pull herself together for an interview.

  “Probably more than one person.” For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out who at Heart’s Desire mi
ght want to kill the songwriter. She was annoying when she was in her cups, but that wasn’t a reason to cut her throat. Or at least not a good one.

  I left Coleman to speak with Gretchen alone and went with DeWayne to examine the songwriters’ suite. The layout was much the same as Marjorie’s room, except there were two queen-sized beds instead of one. The songwriters wouldn’t win any awards for orderliness—their clothes were thrown on every available flat surface. Two guitars were propped against furniture. Clutter and mess, but nothing to indicate an argument or trouble of any kind.

  The laundry hamper in the bathroom overflowed with towels, wraps, and robes.

  I clearly saw why Lola had swiped a few of Amaryllis’s linens. There wasn’t a dry towel in the bathroom. Everything was damp and wadded into the hamper.

  Tinkie had the computer expertise in Delaney Detective Agency, but I knew enough to open the files on the laptop. Song lyrics, a calendar with appointments—nothing obvious that might lead to murder. DeWayne took the computer for a more comprehensive examination.

  Coleman had finished with Gretchen when I returned. “What did you find out from her?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing that makes any sense. She doesn’t know who would hurt Lola. Or Amaryllis. Or Amanda.”

  Before we could get into it any deeper, Amaryllis appeared for her interview. I’d filled Coleman in on what she’d said to me, but she refused to admit any of it to him. Not even in front of me.

  “I have no idea where you came up with that wild story,” she said, and I had to admire her chutzpah even as I noted her trembling. She was terrified.

  “You told me you feared for your life. You think your lover may have offed his wife and intends to kill you.”

  “I didn’t tell you a damn thing. I don’t socialize with maids.” She wouldn’t budge. She said only that Lola must have taken her spa supplies when they were left outside her door. “Lola and Gretchen hogged the spa all the time. You’d think they’d never stayed in a luxury accommodation before. They couldn’t get enough of the facials or saunas or massages. They must have booked appointments at least four times a day. Lola mentioned earlier that they’d used up the spa supplies in their room and asked to borrow some of mine. I didn’t care. I’m not interested in the spa.”