“Because the organist at the Presbyterian church had given them to him as a gift. She was in the post office on a Saturday morning when Roscoe trotted by with them in his mouth. She knew instantly the pastor had dropped them somewhere he shouldn’t. She came to my house to accuse me of having an affair with him. She knew Roscoe was my dog. Everyone in town knows Roscoe. Now where is that darn hound?”
“I gather the underwear was distinctive?” I almost hesitated to ask.
“Oh, dear, they were … one of a kind.” She laughed heartily. “They had a Moses-like figure on them and the saying ‘When God calls, Peter rises to the challenge every time.’”
Tinkie choked on her Bloody Mary and almost spewed. I made no effort to control my laughter. “That’s a most amusing story.”
“Honey, spend an afternoon with Roscoe and you’ll have enough material for a book. That dog finds trouble. I try to keep him home because I know folks who’d gladly kill him. But Roscoe is Roscoe. If I kept him behind a fence he’d just pine away and die.”
“How did you patch this over?” Tinkie asked.
“By saying the underwear accidentally got into my clothes at the dry cleaner’s. I said I’d put them in the trash and Roscoe got them out. Since everyone knows Roscoe’s crazy for digging in the trash, everyone believed it.”
“A clever fabrication,” I said. Millicent was all devilish charm and entertainment—she was also capable of cunning. She might exude magnolia charisma, but there was a clever brain at work.
“So what was it Monica and Eleanor thought I could do about the necklace?” she asked. “They hate my guts. Did they send you to search the house?”
“Well, actually, they didn’t send us.” Tinkie crunched the celery from her Bloody Mary. “We came on our own initiative.”
“To what purpose?” Millicent’s eyes twinkled merrily, but I wasn’t fooled.
“We need your help,” Tinkie said. “The insurance company is stalling. As the only legal heir of the Briarcliff Estate, aside from the sisters, I thought it might be in your best interest to help.”
I had to hand it to Tinkie. She was a genius.
“What can I do?” Millicent asked.
“The insurance company wants the whereabouts of every heir accounted for. Where were you on Monday?”
“That’s easy enough,” she said. “I was on a shopping spree in Jackson. You can verify it at Belinda’s Costume Emporium. It’s time to get ready for my next Halloween getup. I’m thinking Elvira Mistress of the Dark.”
“An excellent choice.”
She retrieved her purse and brought out a sales slip with the time and date. “Any more questions?”
6
We left the pink Victorian without a tour of the doll room. By this time we stopped for lunch at a unique restaurant tucked under the skirts of a giant Aunt Jemima. Perhaps not the most politically correct structure, but the food was homemade and delicious. I was tempted to order a second slice of lemon meringue pie. Only Tinkie’s appraising eye roving over the waist of my tight jeans made me resist.
Tinkie pushed back her plate. Far be it from me to comment on her fried chicken gnawed down to the bone. There wasn’t even a breaded crumb of crispy skin lurking on her plate.
She must have read my mind. “To hell with moderation. Let’s split a piece of chocolate pie,” she said, waving at the waitress.
When we left, I thought I might roll out to the car, but managed to bend into the front seat. Tinkie drove to Helena Banks Gorenflo’s mansion, a Tara replica out Highway 61. The house centered a four-hundred-acre estate. The “garage” apartment was a converted carriage house measuring close to four thousand square feet. Behind the apartment was a swimming pool and tennis courts. John Hightower, British biographer-slash-grudge-holder, had fallen into the lap of luxury.
We’d deliberately failed to warn him of our imminent arrival, so when we climbed the stairs to knock on his door, he opened it with a mildly puzzled expression. “Can I help you?” he asked, very proper.
“We’re private investigators,” Tinkie said. “We’d like to speak with you.”
“Oh, dear.” He paled. “And what, may I ask, are you investigating?” Guilt was writ large on his face.
Tinkie’s smile revealed perfect, glistening white teeth. “You, Mr. Hightower. You. May we come in?”
Had he been a smarter little piggy, he’d have said “not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.” As it was, Tinkie merely pushed at the door and he fell back, giving us entrance to his beautifully furnished abode.
John Hightower was an oddity amidst the dark paneling, leather sofas, weight machines, and fitness equipment that spoke of a man deeply involved with physical image. He was slender, pasty, balding, and had the musculature of a cooked egg noodle. His belt was notched at the first hole. I had a terrible suspicion his waist was smaller than mine.
My first thought was John Hightower couldn’t pull off a practical joke, much less a kidnapping. Especially not the abduction of a woman as fierce as Monica.
Tinkie and I seated ourselves in matching wingback chairs.
“I don’t think you should be here.” He rested his slender hands on the back of a sofa.
“Did we ask for your thoughts?” Tinkie was a powerhouse. She’d sensed that he would yield to a forceful woman and she was dead on.
“Well, no, but—”
“We ask the questions and you answer.” Tinkie leaned forward. Even though he was ten feet away, he flinched. “You were at Briarcliff five days ago, is that correct?”
“Briarcliff?” He acted as if he’d never heard the word. “Five days ago?”
Tinkie’s left eyebrow shot almost to her hairline. “Are you on drugs, Mr. Hightower? Do you need medical attention?”
“I’m fine.” He mustered his grit. “I was at Briarcliff. It was my final interview with the Levert sisters.”
“I’ll bet,” I said. “You revealed a personal bone to pick with their family and they tossed you off the property.”
To my surprise, color flooded Hightower’s face. “I do have an issue with the Leverts. The course of my family’s personal history might have been very different had it not been for that blackguard, Barthelme Levert.”
“That was two hundred years ago.” I couldn’t help it. “You want what? Revenge? Reparation? For an event that happened four or five generations back? In another country? You want the wrongs of history redressed? Well, get in line.”
Beneath the pudding was steel, and I caught a glimpse of something ugly lurking behind his mild exterior. Hightower’s eyes sparkled dangerously. “Barthelme sank my ancestor’s ship. That act pushed the Hightower family into poverty. Brewster Hightower was taken to the workhouse because he couldn’t pay his bills. Creditors pounced on his Liverpool home, and his family was put out on the streets to starve. He died a broken man.”
“Boo-hoo.” His mealymouthed whining grated on my last nerve. How much did he hate the Levert family?
“I think you ladies, and I use that term loosely, should leave,” he said, all huffy. The dangerous anger was cloaked again, but I knew it was there—and easily provoked.
“We’re not going anywhere.” Tinkie probably didn’t approve of my tart remarks, but I could tell Hightower pissed her off, too.
“I’m writing my book, and it will be published,” Hightower said. “The Levert sisters can send as many strong-armed henchmen as they want. I’m not backing down. Barthelme’s evil deeds will be publicized and available for all to read.”
“The Levert sisters don’t give a damn what you write and publish.” I moved to confront him. “They want their necklace back.”
“What?” He looked from me to Tinkie.
“Return it and they won’t press charges.”
“I hardly think they’re in a position to press charges of any kind against me,” he said. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I heard the necklace was stolen, but I had nothing to do with that.”
“When was t
he last time you saw Monica?” Tinkie pressed.
“At Briarcliff. Several days ago. But that won’t be the last they see of me, I assure you. Once my book is published, I intend to run them out of town. It’s biblical. The sins of the father shall fall upon the son. Generations of Leverts have profited from the blood money Barthelme accrued. I am the avenging angel of the Lord. I shall bring them down and smite them with the truth of their family heritage.”
“What is it you feel the Leverts owe you?” I asked.
“Money. A lot of money. Barthelme ruined my family. We never recovered. He came to this country and built a fortune while my ancestor rotted in debtor’s prison. I want what would have rightly been Brewster’s.”
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe you should work at a career and earn the things you want?” I asked.
“You’re just another child of privilege,” he sneered. “Let me guess—you live in the family home. You trade on your family name. You were educated by your parents.”
He was three for three, but not in the way he assumed. My parents left me something far better than money. They’d left me a good name.
“Mr. Hightower, where were you last night?” I hardly thought he had the physicality to drag Monica out of Briarcliff even if he’d managed to knock her out. My bets were on him having Monica abducted, then being unable to resist goading her, rubbing her nose in his superiority.
“I had dinner with Helena Banks Gorenflo, my hostess.”
“And when did you leave?” I asked.
“At half past nine. We had Cornish hens stuffed with cranberries and pecans. Delicious. She has the best chef in the Southeast.” He’d regained his composure and British accent, which had begun to slip. I wondered if anything about John Hightower was genuine.
“Delightful, I’m sure,” I said. “And after that?”
“I was here, reading.” He pointed to a book on the table beside my chair. “Sir Kingsley Amis.”
“You were alone for the remainder of the evening,” Tinkie said.
“I don’t require someone to read to me. In England, our schools believe in literacy, not social promotion.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” I was up to my ears in his Continental insults. “Can anyone verify you were here?”
“Why?” It took him long enough to ask. Was that because he knew the reason behind the questions?
“There’s a method to our madness,” Tinkie said. “Just bear with us and answer.”
“I’m an adult. I don’t need a tender.”
“So no one can vouch for your whereabouts. Did you ever ask Monica or Eleanor for financial restitution for what you view as past wrongs?”
“I gave them a chance to do the right thing. They refused to listen to me.” He drew himself to his full height. “I’ve researched this impeccably. The stories are true. Barthelme was a blackguard, a thief, and a murderer. He has much to answer for. As does Monica, the deceptive bitch. Eleanor is a scorpion of a woman.” “Smug” was the only word to describe him. “Those two women will suffer.”
“How?” My heart beat faster. There was something in his face, some satisfaction in the idea of others’ suffering that made me wary.
“The things they value most will be taken from them. Like the necklace. Do you think it’s coincidental that Barthelme’s prize necklace is missing? The Lord works in mysterious ways. Barthelme harmed many people to get the money to commission that necklace. Now it’s gone. The hand of Providence at work.”
“Sounds like the hand of a common thief.” I’d had more than I could stomach. John Hightower contorted and twisted facts, history, and religious doctrine to suit his own needs.
Tinkie sensed my need to decamp. “We’ll leave, but we aren’t finished with you, Mr. Hightower.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, ladies. I have nothing further to say to you. Not now, not ever.”
“Hey, John, just remember, you can run, but you can’t hide.” I was determined to have the parting shot as Tink and I glided out the door.
From the car, we saw him peep through the curtains, watching us.
“That wasn’t a waste of effort,” Tinkie said. “Hightower is despicable, greedy, lazy, and motivated by revenge. He would feel justified in abducting Monica. I seriously think he views himself as God’s instrument of revenge.”
“He isn’t religious or British.”
“When we get back to the hotel, we’ll check him out.”
“While we’re here, we might as well call on Mrs. Gorenflo,” I said.
“We should have called ahead,” Tinkie said. “She may not see us on such short notice. There is etiquette to consider.”
“Not a problem.” I pulled out my cell phone and dialed info. The operator connected me for no extra charge.
I could see the big house through the trees. Someone was walking around a pool, but it looked like a young girl instead of a middle-aged woman. Then again, liposuction, Botox—the tools of perpetual youth—were at the disposal of Mrs. Gorenflo.
Her phone rang four times before a soft voice answered. I told Mrs. Gorenflo we were calling at the behest of the Levert sisters. Simply curiosity won out over formal manners. She invited us up for a glass of tea.
Tinkie parked at the front door, and the maid showed us into a house that looked like an upper-crust mansion, circa 1920. I was smitten with the huge mirrors, the black and white tile of the foyer, the heavy drapes in a shade of peach that perfectly complemented the dark maroon walls.
The tap-tap of high heels alerted us to Helena Banks Gorenflo’s arrival. She came forward, hand extended. While she wasn’t a beauty, she was a handsome woman of the Joan Crawford variety. She shook our hands and ushered us into a parlor.
“So you’re here at the behest of Monica and Eleanor,” she said. “I should tell you up front, it’s a waste of your time. The Levert sisters lack the pedigree to join the Confederate Belles for Justice. There’s nothing I can do about it. Facts are facts. Besides, we can’t include Briarcliff on the tour of homes, our annual fund-raiser. Every member must have a home fit for the tour.”
“Why can’t you tour Briarcliff?” Tinkie asked.
“People are terrified of the place. It’s haunted, you know. Headless horsemen, family members screaming as they run off the cliff.” When she saw our expression, she laughed. “Surely you’ve heard tales of old Barthelme haunting the house and grounds. He rides his black devil horse along the bluff, sparks flying from the horse’s hooves. The story goes that if you look into Barthelme’s eyes, you’ll be driven insane and jump from the bluff. Folks in town won’t go near Briarcliff after dark.”
“Surely you don’t really believe in ghosts and hauntings,” Tinkie said.
“I do, and I’m not alone. Strange things happen at Briarcliff. And before you waste your breath pleading Monica’s case, I assure you the entire board of the Confederate Belles for Justice stands behind this decision. There was not one dissenting vote.”
“Monica will be disappointed to hear that,” Tinkie said.
Helena laughed. “She’s already heard it. A number of times.”
“When did you last speak with her?” Tinkie asked.
“A week ago. She was very angry with me.” Helena smiled. “Are you by chance related to Oscar Richmond of Zinnia?” she asked Tinkie.
“He’s my husband. Avery Bellcase is my father.” Tinkie laid out the cards of her own pedigree.
Helena looked at me. “And you are…”
“I was found floating in a rush basket on the Mississippi River wearing a coat of many colors. I have prophetic dreams and I sense I was a prince in a past life. That’s all I know.”
Tinkie reached back and pinched me so hard on my ass that I yelped and jumped forward, almost knocking into Helena.
“Prince, my eye,” Helena said severely. “It’s clear you have no breeding whatsoever.”
Ouch, what a smack down. I barely managed to hide my grin. Hightower was a dangerous, wha
cked-out religious hypocrite. Helena Gorenflo was an elitist society snob. Did I sniff romance in the air?
“We’re not here about family pedigrees,” I said. “We’re private investigators with questions about the theft of a ruby necklace.”
“Oh, yes, I heard the vulgar thing was stolen.” Satisfaction ruled her features. “Who would want it? Every woman who clasped a Levert necklace around her neck died within the year.”
“Except for the one Levert to whom you object so strenuously. Terrant Cassio Levert. She had twins and lived a long life.”
“After she murdered Barthelme.” She mimed surprise. “Don’t look so shocked. The whole town knew she killed him, and not a single person lifted a finger to accuse her. That’s how much Bartheleme was hated. They let his murderer go scot-free.”
I glanced at Tinkie. She shrugged. It seemed pretty clear that five young women—not to mention numerous travelers, river workers, and slaves—died at Barthelme’s hands. So the sixth wife got the drop on him. Perhaps it wasn’t legal, but it was a type of justice.
“Have you ever seen the necklace?” Tinkie asked.
“One of the twins wears it on occasion. They’re overly proud of it, you know. The thing was tacky beyond belief. And gaudy to boot. I can’t recall the jeweler who designed it, but he was far overrated.”
“When was the last time you saw it?”
Helena had obviously given up offering us tea or inviting us farther into her home. We stood in the foyer, opulence visible in all directions. Beautiful décor. Old money, antiques, quiet good taste.
“The Fourth of July fête. I think Monica wore it then. And little else, I might add. Her red minidress was a scandal. She’s too old for that kind of exhibition. At least Eleanor dresses appropriate to her age.”
“Why would Monica wear the necklace to a Fourth of July event?” In my experience, Independence Day was generally a picnic and fireworks, not a ball gown and jewels.
“Because she’s uncouth. Which is another reason she’ll never be a part of the Confederate Belles for Justice. We can tolerate a lot of things, but not her conduct.”
Bones of a Feather: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Page 7