Eleanor faced the river and an expression of nostalgia settled over her features. “When we were children, I loved Briarcliff. My parents came here every winter after they tired of Aspen or Geneva or Rome. This was where we were truly a family. We played croquet on the front lawn. Mother had tea parties or holiday fêtes with lanterns and torches. Everyone laughed. That’s what I remember the most, the sound of laughter mingling with a breeze in the oak trees. I thought this was the most beautiful place in the world.”
She sounded so lost—I wanted to comfort her, but I didn’t know how. “You have to believe Monica is alive. Don’t lose your faith in your sister.”
“You know my mother died here.” She extended her toe to the cliff’s edge. “She plunged to her death. The talk in town was that my father pushed her.”
I could only imagine the difficulty of living with such cruel gossip. The curse of murder came with wealth for the sisters.
“They said it was the Levert family legacy, our tradition, for the Levert heir to kill his wife.” Eleanor’s voice had grown short and choppy, and I was worried she would have a stroke. The hot August light was full on her as the fierce sun slipped toward the horizon across the river. “After Mother’s death, Monica and I vowed never to marry. Never to have children to carry on the horror of this family blight. We both broke that oath, and we have suffered greatly because of it.”
I knew Eleanor referred to the artist who was murdered by muggers the night before their wedding. And Jerome, the loyal gardener, who could never be good enough. Those were the burdens she carried. For Monica, it was Barclay, who safeguarded us even as we waited for the call that would determine her life. She’d never allowed herself the joy of motherhood.
“I’m sorry, Eleanor.”
“Don’t be,” she said with scalding bitterness. “Sorrow never yields any crop except grief.”
Before I could respond, her cell phone rang. It startled me so badly I almost dropped it over the cliff. Tinkie steadied me as I handed the phone to Eleanor. It was six o’clock on the dot.
“This is Eleanor Levert.” She spoke with admirable dignity and strength. “I’m going to put the phone on speaker so Sarah Booth and Tinkie can hear you. We want to be sure to follow your directions to the letter.”
“Good thinking,” the male voice said. A hint of amusement infuriated me. I tried to focus on the qualities of the voice, any sounds in the background. The kidnapper was smart. He’d realized we were likely recording him on the house phone, so he’d designated a place where we couldn’t.
“I want to speak to my sister.” Eleanor sounded forceful. That was good.
“You’re in no position to demand anything,” the caller said harshly. His voice had a strange, echoey tone. Once again I thought of warehouses and abandoned places. Tinkie and I had never checked Eleanor’s list—she’d never given it to us. Once this was over, it would be a good lead to hand to the authorities.
“We have the money,” Eleanor said. “You’ll never see a dime unless we know Monica is alive and unharmed.”
“Oh, she’s alive.” He laughed. “Unharmed? You might be stretching a fine point. I can promise she’ll hurt a lot more if you try to fuck with me.”
Eleanor couldn’t control the sob that shook her frame. Tinkie put an arm around her and shored her up.
Stepping into the breach, I said, “I want Monica to recite the Pledge of Allegiance.” It was the only thing I could think of and earned me a questioning look from Tinkie.
“Your patriotism is fascinating,” the kidnapper said, “but I understand. You want proof of life. If she recites for you, then you’ll know she’s alive. For the moment.”
The phone clattered onto something hard, rattled around, and then a breathless Monica came on, her voice thready and weak. “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands—” She broke off with a whimper and a cry of pain.
“She’s alive. Now listen up. Have the money in the red Cadillac you’re so fond of riding in. Take it to Natchez Under-the-Hill and park in the lot beside Bennator’s. Be there at nine tonight. Wait for me to contact you. When I’m certain no one is following, I’ll call this cell phone and give further directions.”
“All right,” Eleanor said, her voice quivering. “Don’t hurt Monica.”
“Don’t try to boss me,” he said. “Do what you’re told and your sister will be returned. Screw this up, and she’s a dead woman.”
“I’ll be there.” Eleanor said.
“You’ll all three be there. I’m not stupid. You can’t leave the two private investigators behind. I want to know where all of you are at all times.”
There was no time to argue. He hung up.
“Shit,” Tinkie said, clearly unhappy with the last turn of events. “We shouldn’t be involved in the drop. I don’t like this at all.”
“Neither do I.” We’d told Eleanor all along we weren’t part of the drop. But she clearly wasn’t at fault. She had no control over what the kidnapper ordered.
Eleanor’s thin fingers clutched at my shirt. “You’ll ride with me? Won’t you? If you don’t, he’ll kill Monica.” She was beside herself.
“Let’s go in the house and discuss this. Maybe Barclay saw something.” I wasn’t counting on it, but I had the distinct impression I needed to get Eleanor away from the edge of the cliff. The Leverts had a habit of falling—or jumping—to their deaths. The state Eleanor was in, she might be the next candidate for a plunge into eternity.
* * *
“He isn’t surveilling from anywhere I could detect,” Barclay said as he accepted the drink Tinkie mixed.
Barclay reclined on an overstuffed sofa looking every inch the Levert in charge. He seemed to have no regard for Monica’s safety—or a worry in the world. I didn’t really blame him. He had no memory of her as any part of his life other than a thorn pricking his father every hour of every day.
Tinkie relayed my theory of a camera on the bridge.
“Very good!” he said, as if I’d given the answer to a game show. “I think you hit on it. It’s the only logical solution if the observer is on the west side of the river.”
“What good does it do us?” Eleanor demanded. She slammed her drink onto a side table. “None of this helps us get Monica back. Barclay should leave. He’s no help.”
“And no hindrance,” he said.
“He might be of help,” I said. “We need him here, at Briarcliff, when we go to Under-the-Hill.”
“What do you think is here for you?” Eleanor addressed Barclay. “Everything is gone. We lost it all. There’s no inheritance. Briarcliff is all that’s left, and now we’re going to lose it.”
Barclay shrugged. “Easy come, easy go.”
His attitude infuriated Eleanor, and I stepped in front of her as she strode toward him. “Stop it. We’re all on edge.”
“Shouldn’t we go to Bennator’s and wait?” Eleanor was beside herself with anxiety. “We should leave. I want to be there early.”
Early was good, but two hours ahead of schedule was a bit excessive. “Are you okay?” Her behavior worried me.
“I’m worried. I need to move.”
That I could understand. “Why don’t you and Tinkie go on to Bennator’s? Have a bite to eat. I want to check out something.” I wasn’t being deliberately vague, but I didn’t want to discuss my plans. Call me paranoid, but it had occurred to me the kidnapper could easily have bugged Briarcliff. He was monitoring our movements—we had proof. In the numerous times the house had been broken into, perhaps it was to plant bugs rather than steal something.
Both Tinkie and Barclay picked up on my cautious mood. Eleanor remained oblivious, trapped in her own anxiety. “Both of you come with me. Please. I’d prefer both of you. That way, we’ll be there when he calls. It makes me anxious to separate. I think all three of us should go. Barclay can stay here, if he must.”
“Your generosity astounds me, Aunt Elea
nor.”
Barclay was more amused than he had any right to be. His attitude annoyed me, but I had to stop all talk of importance. “Tinkie, y’all head down to town. I’ll be behind you in twenty minutes.” I leaned to whisper, “No more than an hour. This place may be bugged.”
She nodded her agreement, and in quick dispatch she loaded Eleanor and the money in the Cadillac and they took off down the drive.
Barclay was at first reluctant to help me hunt for a bug, but he got into the spirit of the search. To my frustration, we found nothing. “The kidnapper knows everything we do. How?” I glanced around to be sure we hadn’t forgotten some place.
“I’ll take a drive over the bridge to see if I can spot anything, but a camera could be tiny.”
“Thank you, Barclay.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m only safeguarding what little may be left of my inheritance.” His brow furrowed. “Why should I care what happens to Monica? She never cared for me.”
“I don’t know. Why do you?” I could only wait for his answer, which came more quickly than I’d anticipated.
“I want her to know me, to see what she left behind like I was so much trash.”
No matter how old a man got, his mother could still wound him. Barclay carried a lot of scars from Monica’s callous behavior. “Can you ever forgive her?”
His answer was unexpected. “I want to. Since my father died, I don’t have anyone. Monica and Eleanor are my family.” He gave an uneasy laugh. “I guess blood is thicker than water.”
Upstairs, Sweetie, Roscoe, and Chablis were roused from a nap by an approaching vehicle. “Oh, shit,” I whispered. Coming up the drive was a patrol car, with Gunny at the wheel. If the kidnappers saw this, it could mean curtains for Monica.
“Go!” Barclay pushed me toward Monica’s car. “He’ll follow you. Get him out of here before Monica pays the price.”
He was right, I had to lure Gunny away from Briarcliff. Every moment he stayed on the property put Monica at risk.
I jumped in Monica’s car, tore through the portico, and headed around the house. The Porsche handled like a dream, even when I cut so hard in the grass that it slewed before straightening. The tires caught traction, and I pulled out just as Gunny was opening his door. I went by at such a high speed his hat was almost unsettled. He hit the siren, once, to get my attention. Just to be sure he followed me, I gave him the one-finger salute. It proved to be all the provocation necessary. The chase was on!
The Porsche was built for high speeds, and I tore down the road toward the national forest where I’d found Marty Diamond’s cabin. The roads were winding—and out of the city jurisdiction. While hot pursuit would give Gunny leave to chase me, he might also decide to drop back and wait for a chance to catch me without endangering the lives of Adams County residents.
If I could get far enough ahead of him.
And that was a big if. He was nobody’s fool behind the wheel of the patrol car, and he drove like a man who knew his business. Still, the Porsche out-horsepowered him. At last, after what seemed an eternity of curves coming too fast and hairpin turns, I lost him.
And I’d lost valuable time. I had to get back to Natchez and the rendezvous at Bennator’s. In the national forest, I had no cell phone reception at all.
Dark fell quickly as I made my way back toward town, hoping that Gunny had better things to do than set up a roadblock. Instead of trying to reason with him, I’d run. He wouldn’t appreciate such behavior. Not in the least. If he caught me now, he wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say.
As soon as I got within range of a tower, I called Tinkie to tell her what had happened. God bless Barclay, he’d already delivered the news, which had calmed Eleanor somewhat. Instead of bouncing off the walls, she was merely climbing them.
“Can you pick me up?” I couldn’t risk driving into Natchez proper in Monica’s car. Gunny might not have roadblocks up, but he sure as hell had alerted his officers to be on the lookout for me.
“Eleanor isn’t going to like it.” Tinkie spoke cautiously, so I knew our client was listening.
“It’s either that or manage without me. Tell her.”
In a moment Tinkie came back on the line. “Eleanor will wait here at Bennator’s. I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”
With some reluctance, I parked the Porsche behind a Laundromat and started walking to a quick-serve station about a mile away. The night was dark, the moon hidden by low clouds.
The road was completely empty, a creepy feeling. At Dahlia House, I enjoyed the solitude and sense of isolation. Natchez wasn’t home, though. Here I felt cut off from everyone, and there was a nagging sense that I’d missed something important.
My leather boots crunching the gravel on the shoulder of the road as I walked, I listened to the song of the crickets in the tall grass that covered the ditches.
Summer in the South—a combination of beauty and brutality. This was not a climate for the faint of heart or those who couldn’t confront harsh elements. Even though the sun was gone, the night was sticky and close. Sweat slipped down my cleavage and back, soaking my shirt and jeans.
Graf loved the hot summer nights. During his most recent visit to Dahlia House, we’d gone for a ride on Reveler and Miss Scrapiron, cantering around the cotton fields as dusk fell.
“This land holds magic.” Those had been Graf’s words. Sitting on the beautiful bay mare Miss Scrapiron, he’d breathed in the smell of dirt and growing things. “I love this place, Sarah Booth. I’d never take you from here. Not permanently.”
I didn’t tell him that he couldn’t. No one could. But he could steal me away for long weeks of California sunshine and the glitzy life of a film actor. I could share his life as he shared mine.
Without warning, I missed Graf with a physical pain. The urge to call him was great, but I couldn’t. Not when my intention included helping Eleanor drop $4 million in ransom money—likely a very dangerous ransom exchange where a woman’s life teetered in the balance.
No, now wasn’t the time to call Graf. I would only make him worry.
I’d walked so long in the darkness and silence I stopped when I saw headlights approaching me. My first inclination was to get in the ditch and hide, like a refugee or criminal.
The car approached slowly, and I knew it was too late to do anything except keep walking. If it was a cop, I was done for.
At last the car drew abreast of me and the window came down. I couldn’t see into the dark interior, and my heart beat fast and furious. Poised to run, I waited.
“Need a lift, young lady?”
“Barclay!” I could have brained him.
“Tinkie sent me to fetch you. How about we get the Porsche and trade cars. I think I can stay ahead of the Natchez Police Department.”
It was the most sensible plan I’d heard all week.
23
When I stepped through the doors of Bennator’s, I listened to the blues singer wail the words to Walter Spriggs’s “I’m Not Your Fool Anymore.” The horn section was terrific—but loud. Eleanor appeared ready to explode. When she saw me, she rose from her chair, knocking the table so hard her drink and Tinkie’s crashed to the floor.
Before we could stop her, she went to the bar for another round. Wisdom prevailed and instead of alcohol, she brought three coffees. Good for me and Tinkie, but I wasn’t certain Eleanor needed the caffeine jolt.
“Thanks.” I took the hot mug she offered.
We finished our coffee and went outside. The night was still partially overcast. Shifting clouds gave moonlight one moment and darkness the next. Far away, thunder rumbled, and I thought of Thor, the Norse god with a hammer, pounding the sky.
The river, only a few dozen yards away, sucked noisily at the shore, as the Mighty Mississippi flowed south toward Sin City. When this mess was over, maybe Tinkie and Cece and I could take a vacation on one of the old paddleboats that catered to tourists. We needed a week of idle luxury. I was ready for some time off,
and if Graf was busy filming in La-La-Land, my female buddies were good company.
“What time is it?” Eleanor asked.
I wanted to say, “Twenty seconds from the last time you asked” but I didn’t. “It’s eight fifty-two.”
“Do you think he’ll call?” Eleanor fidgeted like a caged animal. “Maybe we should check the money in the trunk. Let’s move the car away from the streetlight. Should we wait in front of the bar so he can see us?”
I held her shoulders firmly. “Calm down. You’re going to have to pull yourself together to make this happen, Eleanor.”
I thought she might cry, but she lifted her chin. This week had aged her. I could see the fine lines and the slight sag of skin along her jaw. When I’d first met the sisters, none of this had been evident. Stress had worked its hardship on her. This night would exact a toll on all of us.
To placate Eleanor’s nerves, Tinkie opened the trunk. The money, in two separate and heavy gym bags, lay exactly where we’d put it.
“We should put in the ink packs I bought,” Tinkie said. She knew as well as I did that once the kidnapper had the money, there was no guarantee he would release Monica. If the ink packs went off, it might motivate him to kill her—or run for his life. There was no way to tell.
“We’ll do nothing to jeopardize Monica,” Eleanor said. “Let him have the money. I just want my sister.” She spun on Tinkie. “You didn’t tell your husband about the kidnapping, did you?”
“We haven’t told anyone.” I didn’t care for her aggression toward my partner. Our involvement in this was only to help her save Monica, and she had no right to snarl at Tinkie.
“I’m sorry. Just do whatever he says. I need your word.”
“We’re here to help you,” Tinkie assured her.
Eleanor’s cell phone rang. She answered with grim determination. “You’re early,” she said. She put her phone on speaker so we could all hear.
“I’m early. You’re early. Perhaps we’re all a bit too eager.” He laughed. “Have a nice meal? I’ve been told Bennator’s has excellent barbecue.”
Bones of a Feather Page 24