Greedy Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “No, your father is with him,” I reminded her. “Mr. Bellcase is watching over Oscar and the others, too.” Tinkie was convinced that if Oscar was left alone for even a minute, the Angel of Death would slip down the corridor and snatch him away.

  “I need to be with Oscar.”

  I gently circled her wrist with my hand and held her. “Eat a little more. For me.”

  She sat on the edge of her chair and picked up another piece of bagel. “For you, Sarah Booth.” She stuffed it into her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and stood. Oscar was all she had on her mind.

  “I’m going to Chicago,” I told her. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Sarah Booth, you may just be chasing your tail.” Tinkie pointed at the papers still scattered on the table. “What if this illness has nothing to do with the Carlisle family?”

  “Do you know something, Tinkie?” Oscar hadn’t regained consciousness, hadn’t spoken to anyone, but I’d learned the hard way not to discount the things that Tinkie could discern by listening to her heart.

  She chewed the tip of her thumb, hesitating. “It’s occurred to me that someone may have followed Oscar out there. Someone he was meeting. Someone who might have hurt him.”

  The words were like blows of a hammer. “I don’t believe that.” If Tinkie was accusing Oscar of a tête-à-tête with another woman, I didn’t believe it at all.

  “I’ve neglected him lately.” Tears welled and slipped down her cheeks.

  “Bullshit.” I could not let her believe this.

  “I’ve focused on myself, my dreams, my wants.”

  Guilt is an invasive virus. Once it breaks into a person’s mind, it spreads and infects everything. “That’s total crap, Tinkie. Don’t do this to yourself.”

  “What if it’s true?”

  “Both Harold and Margene told you that Luther called and asked Oscar to sell the plantation. A legitimate business call sent him to that land. It wasn’t some chance to have a fling in an abandoned house.”

  The silent tears let me know I wasn’t making any progress.

  “Oscar is totally in love with you, Tinkie. He was proud of your accomplishments as a private investigator. Even your father said so.”

  Her head tilted slightly as if her hearing was bad. “Daddy said that?”

  Oh, thank goodness I remembered. “Mr. Bellcase has spoken to me twice. Both times he warned me against getting you hurt, and both times he told me how proud of you he is. And how proud Oscar is.”

  Tinkie’s tiny hands swiped at the tears. “You don’t think he was meeting a woman at the Carlisle place?”

  “I’d bet my life he wasn’t.” My heart was hammering so hard, my stomach felt upset. The Danishes I’d gobbled in Harold’s office had turned to lead.

  The tears were gone and Tinkie’s blue eyes were sharp and clear. “Do you think he could have been meeting someone else, a buyer?”

  “From all accounts, he went alone, examined the property, and returned to the bank without incident. There’s no indication anyone else was near.”

  She stood up. “Keep searching, Sarah Booth. I know Coleman and the CDC are working hard, but you’re my best hope.”

  Lucky for me there were several direct flights to Chicago from Memphis, and I caught an afternoon plane that put me in the Windy City before sunset. Before I’d driven to Memphis, I’d called Graf to update him, and simply to hear his voice. I’d also let Cece and Millie know my destination. Sonja Kessler sounded like a paramour, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a dangerous person.

  I’d booked a room at a downtown hotel near the Park-side Drive address. Best I could tell by a bit of Internet research, Parkside Drive was in an older, established neighborhood.

  One of the hardest winters on record had buried Chicago in snow after snow, but spring was everywhere I looked as I entered the downtown.

  The Atria Hotel was old-world charm mixed with modern conveniences. My room was lovely and serene—and terribly empty. I thought of Graf and how much I missed him. My fingers circled my cell phone, and the temptation to call was almost irresistible. But I didn’t. He’d told me his shooting schedule, and he was probably in the middle of his horse back chase.

  I left my small bag on the bed and hurried back downstairs, where the doorman flagged a taxi.

  “2424 Parkside Drive,” I told the young woman behind the wheel. Her dark gaze caught mine in the rearview mirror, but she didn’t comment. The cab eased into busy traffic.

  While newer neighborhoods suffer from the McMansion Syndrome—huge homes set side by side on tiny lots—Parkside was a paradise of gracious homes, each nestled among ancient trees and hedges on several acres.

  “Do you know anything about this neighborhood?” I asked the driver.

  “Chicago businessmen built these homes in the early 1900s. During the school year the families lived here, then moved to the lake for the summers.”

  “Who owns them now?” I asked.

  “People who want to preserve the historic downtown, people with that sort of consciousness. And money. It takes a lot of cash to keep up an old house. Maintenance . . .” She made a motion of doling out money. “And heating.”

  “It’s so beautiful here.”

  “Yeah, money can generally buy a nice view and good neighbors.”

  The address we sought had a circular driveway lined with towering plants, maybe rhododendron. The cabby stopped at the door. “Shall I wait?” she asked.

  “I don’t look like the type who’ll stay long?”

  “No bag, don’t know the neighborhood—those things tell me you’re looking for something. Either you’ll find it quickly and leave, or you’ll just leave.”

  I liked her spunk. “Wait for me,” I said.

  She pulled a paperback from the front seat and settled back to read.

  I walked to the leaded-glass entry and rang the bell. Instead of a butler, a tall, slender woman opened the door.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Sonja Kessler?”

  “Yes.” She looked beyond me at the taxi in the drive. “Who are you?”

  “Sarah Booth Delaney, private investigator. I’m here about your interest in the Carlisle family.”

  I thought at first she’d stopped breathing. Her blue gaze, as large and clear as Tinkie’s, held on my face but registered no emotion.

  “I can’t talk with you,” she said at last. “I have plans for this evening.” She began to shut the door.

  I wedged my foot in the crack, wincing as the heavy door pressed against it. “Talk to me now, or Sheriff Cole-man Peters will be here tomorrow.”

  That shook her up. She viewed me through the three-inch gap. “Why are you doing this?” she asked. “The past is dead and gone. There’s no changing it. Just let it lie.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She stepped back, and I pressed my advantage by pushing the door open, revealing a beautifully decorated foyer. I followed her down a hallway into a small library where she’d obviously been working on some papers.

  She was younger than I’d assumed. Much younger. A beautiful woman who must have begun her affair with Gregory Carlisle during her teens. Perhaps that was reason enough to pay her. A Delta planter and a teenage lover—the stories would have gotten ugly.

  “Why have you come here?” She gathered the papers.

  “The Carlisle estate has made payments to you for years. Why?”

  She paused. “It’s not what you think.”

  “Really?”

  “Gregory was my father. He paid me not to come to Mississippi.” She stacked the papers into a neat bundle. “Would you like a soda or some tea?”

  11

  The tea was strong and not sweet, just the way I liked it. Sonja was direct. “Once Gregory accepted that I was his daughter, he offered a yearly sum of money. Not a fortune, but enough. On his death I received a hundred thousand additional.” Sonja’s smile was pensive and she distractedly rattled the ic
e in her tea glass. “Hush money, some people would call it. Since I never knew Gregory, I took the money and let the rest go. I viewed it as a windfall.”

  The library’s mahogany shelves were filled with books, sculptures, and other artwork. Persian carpets covered the oak floor. It was a room of expensive comfort. Sonja may not have had the family name, but she’d acquired the Carlisle lifestyle, or as close as she could come in a city instead of on a plantation.

  “My mother was a singer,” she said. From the mantel she picked up a photograph in a heavy silver frame and handed it to me. The woman at the piano was a classic Nordic type. Sonja, with her peaches-and-cream complexion, favored her mom.

  “She’s lovely.”

  “Mother didn’t have good judgment when it came to men.” She hesitated. “She fell in love easily and always with someone inaccessible. Then again, it’s worked out for me.” She put the picture back. “So you’ve tracked me down and discovered that I’m the bastard daughter of Gregory and a Chicago torch singer.” Her chin lifted. “So what? Luther knows. The only person this will harm is Erin.”

  She knew her siblings’ names, though she claimed no interest in them. “And you care about Erin?”

  Pacing the room, she settled in front of the fireplace. “I don’t know her. We’re the same age. I’ve always found that to be ironic.”

  Irony was one way of describing it. “What’s your contact with the Carlisle family?”

  “I receive the money. I’ve invested wisely.” She crossed the room again and I was struck by her confident carriage. She found a remote control on a side table and ignited a gas log in the fireplace. “I won’t ask you to keep what you’ve found a secret. You’ll do what ever you feel you must. It’ll only hurt Erin.”

  Again, she expressed concern for Erin, a woman she’d never met—a half sister who’d grown up in the family from which Sonja had been excluded. “I’m not interested in dredging up the Carlisle history, Ms. Kessler.”

  “What did you hope to gain by coming here? Blackmail?”

  “I’m searching for some link to the plantation that might explain a serious illness in Sunflower County. Best indications are that it’s confined to the Carlisle land.”

  “I’ve never been there. I know nothing of the estate except for a few remarks Mother made when I was a child.”

  “Do you remember them?”

  She looked out the curtained French doors of the library. Dusk was fading and night falling fast. “Mother said my father was wealthy, that he owned a large tract of land where it was like stepping into the past.”

  “And you were never tempted to go?”

  “Never. I focus on things I can attain, not those beyond my reach.”

  A healthy philosophy, if it was true. “Before you were acknowledged by Gregory as an heir—”

  “I made a good living as a retail buyer. Unlike my father, I’m very good at managing money.”

  “And you’ve had no contact with Luther Carlisle about the land? He wants to sell it. You haven’t attempted to claim any portion of it?”

  “I wasn’t named in the will. Luther has made it clear that I have no interests in Mississippi.”

  “You might have legal standing.” I wasn’t certain about paternity and inheritance laws, but a sharp lawyer could have made a case for her. “Why didn’t you come forward?”

  “Once Gregory acknowledged me, I didn’t try to make contact with him. I didn’t want to cause trouble. I don’t now. I’m more than comfortable, and arguing can’t change a childhood of growing up without a father or siblings.”

  “True.” But it was also true of human nature that most people wanted all they could get. “Do you have DNA proof?”

  “Gregory insisted.”

  “And you’ve been perfectly happy not to know your father’s family or any of your Carlisle relatives?”

  “I didn’t miss out on anything, Ms. Delaney. I had a mother who loved me.”

  Outside the French doors the lawn’s perfect lighting showed the exceptional landscaping. Sonja had security and beauty at her fingertips, but in that one moment, I understood the loss that had touched her. “In that regard, you’re luckier than a lot of people. When did your mother die?”

  “I was seventeen. She was accidentally struck by a car while crossing a street.” If she felt pity for herself, she didn’t show it. She glanced at her wristwatch and frowned. “I’m sorry, but I’m meeting a friend and I’m running late.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Kessler. I’ll be in touch if I need more information.”

  “There’s nothing to add, Ms. Delaney. My connection to the Mississippi Delta is a cash flow from a bank. That’s all.”

  Night had blanketed the street when I walked to the waiting cab. My cell phone rang as the driver took off for the hotel.

  “Hello, dahling,” Cece said. “I wanted to give you an update. Jimmy Baby is taking me to Memphis for dinner.”

  “How’s Oscar?” I’d been away less than a day, but in my absence anything could have happened.

  “The same. Oscar and Gordon have stabilized, but there’s no improvement. The two realtor ladies have improved, but only marginally.”

  Thoughts of Tinkie made my head throb. “I’ll be home tomorrow on the first flight out.”

  “Find anything of value?”

  “Sonja Kessler is getting a nice cut of the Carlisle pie, which Luther is doling out per Gregory’s dictates. She claims she doesn’t want any more than she’s getting.”

  “And when will she be canonized?” Cece’s tone was dry.

  “My sentiments exactly. But so far, there’s nothing to contradict what she said. She says she hasn’t filed any claim.”

  “Well, you may have chased that rabbit into a hole, but I’ve got a lead.”

  “What?”

  “Jimmy Janks is not who he pretends to be. And don’t say what you’re thinking—that neither am I.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that at all. But what did you find out?”

  “He’s not from Mobile, and he doesn’t come from old money.” She laughed. “In fact, dahling, he’s about the worst imposter in the world. He knows enough about Mobile to get himself into trouble talking about it.”

  Cece had spent several summers visiting relatives in the oak-shaded lanes of Spring Hill, the zip code destination of that port city.

  In the 1800s, Spring Hill was the place to survive yellow fever epidemics that raged along Southern waterfront towns like Mobile and New Orleans. The wealthy moved out of town and into the higher elevations, while the poor died of mosquito bites down in the flatlands along the Mobile River and Mobile Bay.

  “I’m sorry, Cece, I know he struck your fancy.”

  “I’m a journalist first and a burning love machine second,” Cece said. “The first time I went out with Jimmy, I realized he was a pretender to the throne of Junior League date material.”

  “Tell me.” Chicago whisked past the cab window.

  “Dahling,” Cece continued, “he held his fork like a savage. I sat there thinking, has he adopted the Continental style for some reason? Then I realized he had no style at all. He clutched his flatware as if readying to attack his plate.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. There were more important things than proper table etiquette in Cece’s life, but not many. “I’m surprised you didn’t rap his knuckles with your bread knife.”

  “I considered it, but I knew if I chastised him for lack of upbringing, I’d never extract any information.”

  “And did you?”

  “Enough to know he bears further research. In fact, that’s why I’m calling. While you’re in Chicago maybe you can track down his background.”

  “Here? In Chicago?”

  “Yes, that would be the Windy City located in Illinois. Look around you.”

  “Save your sarcasm for your witty newspaper articles. I’m just shocked. Did he say he was from here?”

  “He’s not quite that dumb. The give-away was the
fifteen-minute dissertation on the glories of the Chicago Bears, not to mention his intimate knowledge of the places Jimmy Hoffa might be buried. He knows Chicago and he doesn’t know Mobile. Ergo, he might be from Chicago.”

  “Did you find anything on him? Something to help me get started?” Hunting down the background of someone in Zinnia was a different case than in Chicago. In Zinnia, I could most often turn up someone who knew everything, or most everything. In a city like Chicago, it was impersonal. While facts were concrete, they seldom told the whole truth.

  “Preliminary Internet research showed nothing. The only thing I could find on Jimmy was his company and a list of the development projects he’s done.”

  “College degree?”

  “He never attended Ole Miss. I checked that out but didn’t get any further. I would say Jimmy is definitely public school. That doesn’t help much, I know.”

  “Could it be coincidence that he’s from the same place as Gregory’s illegitimate daughter?” How bizarre was that?

  “You know what they say about coincidence, Sarah Booth. Look, I’ve got to go. He’ll be here any minute.”

  The cab driver took a corner sharply, and my stomach lurched. The sensation did nothing to alleviate my concerns for my reporter friend. “Be careful with him, Cece. He may simply be a liar and con man or he could be dangerous.”

  “I’m on the double-alert. And I’ll pump him as much as I can, and I don’t mean in a sexual way.”

  “Behave, and don’t put yourself in danger,” I said. “Promise me you’ll call Coleman and fill him in.” We’d pulled up in front of my hotel and I rummaged through my purse for the fare. The minute my feet touched the pavement, my stomach settled.

  “Will do. By the way, Sarah Booth, you’re a damn determined investigator and a better friend,” she said. “Tinkie should count herself lucky.”

  “No, I’m the lucky one. Don’t take any risks,” I warned her. “When I get home, we can tackle Jimmy together.”

  “Tackle . . . humm. That’s an image I like. Ciao, baby.”

  “Cece!” But she was gone. It wasn’t a good sign when she started using Italian phrases.