Bones To Pick

by Carolyn Haines

  The way Quentin was killed indicated rage and a desire to punish. She’d pissed off a number of people, but 99 percent of angry people don’t commit murder. I was looking for that 1 percent, that one person in all the suspects who could step over the line and take a human life.

  I’d only been a private investigator for a year, but I’d worked on some interesting cases, and I felt I’d learned a lot about human nature. The seed of Cain was in all of us, but most people never acted on a hot desire to murder. Whoever had killed Quentin had plotted it out. She’d been lured into an empty cotton field in the middle of the night. The killer was someone she knew, or someone who could convince her to ride into the darkness with him or her. Quentin’s vehicle was parked at the bed-and-breakfast.

  I picked up the cell phone Tinkie insisted that I carry and dialed her number. “If you get a chance, could you stop by the jail and ask Allison a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Quentin must have ridden into the cotton field with her killer. Who was she talking to the last time Allison saw her? And we need to have the tires on Quentin and Allison’s vehicle analyzed for composites of mud. We may be able to prove that Allison never went into the cotton field.”

  “Good thinking, Sarah Booth. By the way, I returned the little gift to Humphrey.”

  I could hear the amusement in her voice. “And?”

  “He said he had another idea for something that might be more up your alley.”

  “I hope you convinced him to cease and desist.”

  “No, I told him I thought black leather was more your style.”

  I couldn’t be certain she was teasing. Tinkie enjoyed tormenting me as much as I did her. “I’ll get even.”

  “Oh, no doubt. I mentioned that he might want to take a camera. Just think, Sarah Booth, our client list would double if you’d pose for a few snapshots in a little leather outfit. Thigh-high boots, something with chains on the front.”

  She was having way too much fun. “I’m in front of the McGee estate.” I gave a low whistle as I took in the manicured twenty acres with the curving drive, white fences, and Thoroughbreds grazing in a field. “Very nice.”

  “Old money is always the best,” Tinkie said. “Before you hang up, the wake is set from six to nine. A lot of our suspects are still in town. I’m hoping a few of them will show up at the funeral home.”

  “We’ll meet there, then.” I hung up and drove toward the white-columned mansion, which would have done any Southern belle proud.

  7

  The McGees weren’t expecting me, and the maid let me know it at the front door of the Monticello-style mansion.

  “Miss Caledonia didn’t say she was expecting anyone.” She glared at me as I read her nameplate. Wow. Imagine having so many servants they had to wear name tags.

  “I realize that, Tonya, but I’d like to talk with her and her husband, anyway.”

  “Do you have a card?”

  It took me several minutes, but I dug out a slightly used looking business card and put it on the silver tray she extended.

  “Wait here.” The look she gave said “don’t touch anything.”

  The entrance hall was beautifully appointed with marble floors, taupe-colored plaster walls, huge mirrors, and a vase of fresh lilies. Stargazers. Not so long ago a man had sent me such a bouquet. Standing in the foyer of the McGee home, I wouldn’t allow myself to think of Hamilton Garrett and the future I’d thrown away.

  “Miss Delaney, follow me.”

  Tonya had reappeared, and I straightened my posture as I followed the gray uniform–clad maid through a formal dining room to a music conservatory dominated by a grand piano.

  Franklin and Caledonia McGee sat on a brocade sofa. She held a book, her thumb marking her place, and a newspaper was scattered at his feet.

  “What brings a private investigator to our home?” Franklin stood as he spoke. He walked behind his wife, his stance protective.

  “I’m working for Allison Tatum.”

  “I think you should leave.” Franklin’s voice thickened with emotion. “That young woman killed our daughter. We have no business with you.”

  “I think Allison is innocent.” I spoke quietly but with the force of my convictions. “Surely you want to find the real murderer.”

  “And if Allison is the real murderer?” Caledonia’s tone almost frosted my eyebrows. “Get out of our house before I slap your face.”

  “Darling, remember your blood pressure.” Franklin put a hand on her shoulder. He looked at me. “As you can plainly see, you’re upsetting my wife. It would be best for you to leave. Now. We deserve, no, demand the right to grieve in private.”

  The lord and lady of the manor act had worn a little thin with me. “You’re so upset over Quentin’s death, you didn’t even claim her body for burial.”

  Franklin flinched, but his wife only grew angrier. “Get out of this house,” she said, her voice harsh.

  “Miss Delaney, we haven’t spoken to Quentin in over a year. She made it very plain to us that she’d severed her ties to this family. I think it would be fair to say that she hated us.” Franklin held his wife on the sofa with a discreet grip.

  “Why was she so angry with you?” I asked.

  “Quentin was born angry,” Caledonia said. “She came out of the womb with a chip on her shoulder. And don’t think you can blame it on us. Umbria is our daughter, and no one could ask for a more loving and devoted child. Quentin was a changeling. The fairies must have swapped her at birth.”

  I saw Franklin’s grip increase as he sought to stop his wife’s tirade. “We gave Quentin every opportunity that money could buy,” Franklin said. “Just as we did Umbria. Quentin took the money and all it could buy, and then she wanted to act like it was tainted.” His smile was tired. “She could have gone to public school. She didn’t have to ride on the equestrian team at Ole Miss. No one forced her to accept vacations in Europe, week long spa treatments, and a dietician to plan her menus. In my mind, she was the worst kind of hypocrite.”

  Caledonia had gotten as stiff as a board as her husband spoke.

  He released his wife’s shoulder and came to stand in front of me. “Perhaps Shakespeare said it best in King Lear. ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth.’”

  An ungrateful child could break a parent’s heart, but I wasn’t certain either Franklin or Caledonia was suffering from heart problems. It was possible they were only worried about their own necks. “Who would want to kill Quentin?”

  “Almost everyone we know,” Caledonia said. “Can you possibly understand what she did to us? To our friends. All of their private shame, dug up and put in print. We’re social outcasts now because of the action she took.”

  What I wanted to say had something to do with the loss of a daughter versus the loss of social position, but I kept my comments to myself. I had no right to judge the McGees because they hadn’t loved their daughter the way I’d been loved.

  “Quentin was a great disappointment to us,” Franklin said. His mouth quivered. “I’m glad she’s dead.”

  Even if the words were spoken in anger, Franklin McGee was a fool. His wife knew it, too. I could read it in her cold eyes.

  “We’re both terribly upset,” Caledonia said. She stood up and walked to stand beside her husband, her hand on his arm. “It’s just like Quentin to start a mess like her book and then to duck out on the consequences of her actions. She was an irresponsible child.”

  I was having a hard time believing what I was hearing. “Quentin was murdered.” I said. “She didn’t ‘duck out.’”

  Caledonia waved a hand as she spoke. “You know what I meant.”

  “Where were you the night Quentin was killed?”

  “Are you implying—” Caledonia started.

  “I’m not implying anything.” I was way out of patience. “I simply want an answer. Where were you?”

  “It’s none of your business, but we were at the Greenwood Public Library. A fun
d-raiser. For new books.” He barked a laugh. “Isn’t that bitterly ironic?”

  “What time was it over?”

  They exchanged a glance. “Sometime after ten,” Caledonia said.

  I calculated the distance from Greenwood to Zinnia. They could have made the drive, killed Quentin, and gone home. “After you left the fund-raiser, where did you go?”

  “Home.” Caledonia answered quickly. “We had a nightcap, and then we went to bed.”

  “Can the servants verify this?”

  Caledonia laughed. “Do you think we keep them chained in the kitchen until we go to bed? They leave each day after dinner. No one was here.”

  She was an insulting woman. “Then you have no alibi.” I didn’t smile. “And where was your daughter Umbria?”

  They both started, refusing to look at each other. It was the most telling action they could have taken. “She was home with her husband, I’m sure,” Franklin said.

  “She was in Zinnia for the book signing,” I pointed out. She bought a number of books.”

  “I’m sure she was home by dinnertime,” Franklin said. “Her husband enjoys his family time. I do believe Lizzie, the cook, said Umbria stopped by here for some spices Saturday evening.”

  “Could I speak with Lizzie?” I asked.

  Rather than walk to the kitchen, Caledonia rang a small bell that rested beside the sofa. Tonya silently appeared and was dispatched to retrieve Lizzie. We waited in strained silence until Tonya returned.

  “Lizzie has gone to the grocery store,” she said, darting a look in my direction. “She left not ten minutes ago. She should be back within the hour.”

  “I’ll stop by another time,” I said, aware of the relief on the McGees’ faces. “Could you direct me to Rutherford Clark’s real estate office?” When they spoke of Umbria, it was as if she were single. I could see by their expressions that Franklin and Caledonia wished she were single.

  Caledonia leaned forward. “Umbria made a wonderful match, a Delta boy with an impeccable bloodline. We can’t wait for our first grandchild.”

  How nice for them that one child lived up to expectation. I’d gotten all the information I was going to get. Now it was time to pay a call on Rutherford Clark, and I hoped to catch him before he was warned that I was coming.

  I found his real estate office in the heart of Greenwood’s historic district, right beside the Dancing Rabbit Bookstore. To my surprise, the door was locked. When I rattled the knob, a beautiful young woman with long legs, a short skirt, and a large bosom opened it from the inside.

  “Is Mr. Clark available?” I asked.

  She frowned, causing a harsh line to divide her eyebrows. “Rutherford isn’t here. He’s”—the frown deepened—“Who are you, and what do you want with Rutherford?”

  “I’m a private investigator, and I want to talk to him.” As I’d hoped, my words caused her more worry.

  “He’s away on business.”

  “When will he return?”

  “In a week or so.”

  I almost laughed. “Where is he?”

  “Russia,” she said, without a hint of a smile. “It was the opportunity of a lifetime.” She sounded as if she’d memorized words that had no meaning.

  “When did he leave?” I asked.

  “Sunday.”

  From inside the office, I could hear what sounded like television coverage of some type of sporting event. The young woman glanced over her shoulder, clearly nervous. “Could I step inside?”

  She shook her head. “We’re closed.”

  Before I could respond, she shut the door, and I heard it lock. Peering in the window, I watched as she walked to the back of the office, clicking off the lights as she went.

  Since I was so close, I stopped at the bookstore to check on the availability of Quentin’s book. The store owner told me that she’d sold over two hundred copies. It was impossible to keep the book in stock. Umbria McGee Clark had bought almost all of the copies.

  I left the bookstore and took a drive around the town. Greenwood is where the Yazoo and Tallahatchie Rivers meet, and for many years it was a big cotton town. The cotton would be brought in from farms all around, ginned and baled, sold by the pound, and shipped downriver or sent by rail. Since the bottom had fallen out of the cotton market, the town had not prospered. There were empty storefronts, neglected streets, and some beautiful older homes needing a coat of paint. I drove to the local library and checked to make sure there had even been a fund-raiser.

  Peggy Greene, the librarian, was excited to tell me that the fund-raiser had been a great success. The McGees had donated five thousand dollars. They’d been the guests of honor at the event. She moved around the children’s section of the library, restacking books as we talked.

  “Franklin and Caledonia have always supported the library,” she said. She was a trim woman with intelligent brown eyes. “Why are you asking about them?” She rolled her cart full of books farther down the aisle.

  “It’s just routine.”

  “My eye,” she said. “You know, we were afraid that after Quentin’s book came out, the McGees might not support the library. They aren’t really readers, you know.”

  “Do you have any copies of King Cotton Bleeds here?”

  She shook her head. “We don’t intend to stock it.”

  “Because it’s controversial?”

  “No, because it would be stolen.” She stared into my eyes and dared me to question her logic. “We’ve had at least a hundred people call to ask for it, and none of those callers are regular library users. They’re just the type of people who steal books. Isn’t that ironic? We have a wealth of wonderful books, great literature, which folks won’t consider reading. But something scandalous, something that impugns their neighbors, they can’t wait to see it.”

  The McGees held the reins of power at the library. I wondered how much money they’d donated in the last year. “What time was your fund-raiser over?”

  “A little before ten. Several people stayed to talk afterward.”

  “And the McGees?”

  She thought for a moment. “They went home, I believe. Yes, Franklin said he’d been up early. He’d gone to Memphis to take care of something.”

  Because I have a suspicious mind, it naturally jumped to the postmark of the last threatening note Quentin had received. But the timing was off. Franklin couldn’t have mailed the note the same day Quentin received it. I needed to study the date of the postmark more closely, though.

  “Ms. Greene, did you know Quentin?”

  “As a child, she came to the library frequently. Loved to read. Adventure stories and mysteries. Couldn’t get enough of them. Over the summer she was eight, she read the entire Hardy Boys series.” A faint smile touched her mouth as she talked.

  “You were fond of Quentin?”

  “She always seemed a little out of place.”

  I had to tread cautiously here. “I never knew her, but I’m trying to get an idea what kind of person she was. Can you help me?”

  She considered for a moment as she put two books back in their proper places. “Quentin was a kind child. She was tenderhearted. I remember one summer day she found a kitten behind the library, just about starved to death. She pleaded with her mother to take it home, but Caledonia wouldn’t let her. She said cats where filthy creatures, and she wouldn’t have one on her place. Quentin sobbed like she was going to die.” Peggy looked down at the books on her cart and blinked her eyes. “It still upsets me. Caledonia forced Quentin to put the kitten down. It was frightened and ran out in front of a car, and was almost killed in front of Quentin’s eyes.”

  “Quentin must have been very angry with her parents to write that book.”

  Peggy shook her head. “She changed as she became a teenager. She did everything she could to defy her parents. Umbria, of course, only made it that much worse. She was the perfect child. Caledonia was always throwing Umbria up in Quentin’s face. It was horrible.”

&
nbsp; “Do you remember anything else?”

  “When Quentin was younger, she excelled at sports. Caledonia wanted her to take ballet. Quentin refused and played Softball. I don’t think the McGees ever went to a single one of her games, but they drove all over the Southeast to watch Umbria dance.”

  It sounded as if Franklin and Caledonia had done everything in their power to drive Quentin out of the family. They had succeeded, but Quentin’s revenge had come in a way they could never have anticipated.

  “When was the last time you saw Quentin?” I asked.

  “She stopped by a few weeks ago to tell me the release date of the book.” Her hand faltered as she slotted a book back into place. “She was so different.”

  “How so?”

  “She was hard. She knew her book was going to hurt a lot of people, and she was glad about it.” Peggy turned to me. “She did say that with her advance money, she and Allison were going to fund an animal shelter for stray cats. I think the incident with the kitten really scarred Quentin. Of all the things Caledonia did to her, that hurt the worst.”

  My own mother had been the queen of stray animals. Not only did she pick up strays on the side of the road, she was notorious for snatching hunting dogs that ran illegally across our property. Perhaps that was where my passion for hounds had developed. “I can’t imagine upsetting a child that way,” I said.

  “Quentin was so tender. It was what drew me to her. She was so compassionate and kind. When I saw her last, it seemed all of that had died in her.”

  “Did you know Allison, too?”

  “I met her that day. She was so in love with Quentin. I remember thinking that at last Quentin had found someone who could truly love her, truly appreciate her spirit. They told me they were getting married and invited me to the wedding.”

  “She must have thought highly of you.”

  “I took that stray kitten home with me. Miss Vesta lived to be seventeen.”

  “No wonder Quentin called you her friend.” I put my pad and pen in my purse and pulled out a business card. “If you think of anything, or hear anything, please call me.”

  “Librarians aren’t generally included in the local gossip clubs.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners.