“Are you sure you’re okay?” Tinkie asked. “You’re looking a little owlish.”
“Thanks, I think. I’m fine.” I shook off the heat. “Let’s get back to Briarcliff.”
“How will you get Jerome out of his cottage?”
“If he thinks Sweetie and Chablis are lost, he’ll help me hunt them.”
Tinkie took two steps to every one of mine. “You’re one clever woman.”
“And you have impeccable taste in friends.”
* * *
As it turned out, sending Sweetie and Chablis on a romp was easier said than done. The pups circled my legs and nipped at my heels instead of dashing for the woods. The storm was building to the south—once it got close enough, the dogs would head straight for the house. I figured I had at least an hour.
Tinkie had her hands full with a desperate Eleanor. She was near the breaking point, and Tinkie took her inside. The plan was to call Oscar to intervene with cashing the insurance check. It was Eleanor’s only chance to have the ransom money.
Having a banker husband was at times very helpful in the thick of a case.
At last, with much urging on my part, Sweetie caught the scent of something and she took off, her sorrowful baying voice floating across the lawn. Chablis was right behind her, leaping and running, oblivious to the brambles and briars that snagged her expensively highlighted coat.
Just as I planned, Jerome emerged from the herb garden at the sound of the dogs.
“Help me!” I yelled, rushing toward him. “Sweetie and Chablis took off after something and I’m afraid they’ll get lost in the woods.”
“They’re dogs, not wild creatures.” His brows drew together as he assessed my intelligence. “They’ll come back.”
“They don’t know where they are,” I insisted. “Please help me find them.”
“I haven’t got a lick of work done all morning,” he grumbled. “The dogs will return on their own. They’ve got a sight more sense than most people.” His direct look left no doubt to whom he referred.
“If anything happens to Chablis, it’ll kill Tinkie.”
He threw his shovel to the ground. “The dogs will show up when they’re ready. They’re smart creatures. But I can’t accomplish a damn thing if you stand there, yammering at me. The roses are all a’bloom and need attention. Move along with you.”
If he gave the rosebushes any more attention, he’d have to read them to sleep. There wasn’t a leaf out of place. “I think the flowers are fine. I need your help.”
He faced me. “Monica wants fresh flowers in the house every day. Roses. That’s what she likes.” He stabbed his shovel into the ground. “Now let’s find the buggers so I can get back to my digging. Which way did they run?”
I pointed away from his cottage. “East.”
He trudged off, but when I didn’t follow, he stopped. “Well? Have you grown roots?”
“What if they go to the highway?” I used all of my acting skills to appear distraught. “I’ll drive around the estate to the road. If they come out there, I’ll pick them up.”
“A little exercise might work wonders for you. Blood flow to the upper regions, you know.”
“In all the best movies, the gardener isn’t a smart-ass.”
Jerome let out a bark, which I realized was a laugh. “Ride your car, then. Let’s round up the sinners and be done with this.”
I jumped in the Caddy and wheeled around, heading for the road. When Jerome disappeared into the thicket of woods, I took the fork of the driveway to his cottage. I would have to be fast and thorough.
We’d gone through the cottage once, but that was for signs of Monica’s presence. Now I needed evidence of horses … or Barclay Levert. The relationship between Monica and Jerome had so many levels. I remembered the bottle of fine wine, the shared cheese and crackers, how Jerome reacted when we found the scrap of Monica’s gown. He cared for her. But Monica seemed incapable of reciprocating. Perhaps Eleanor was the only person she’d ever loved. Monica had abandoned her own child. And Jerome knew she’d slept with numerous men.
I pulled up to the cottage thinking of the inequity of class. America pretended there was no class structure, but a classification as rigid as the Indian caste system was well and truly in place. The haves and the have-nots. An heiress—even the heiress of a bluebeard type—didn’t marry a gardener.
As Eleanor stressed, Monica once had her pick of European royalty and business entrepreneurs. These men traveled in her social strata. Why had she romanced a gardener and, for that matter, a Gypsy sponge diver? Was there cruelty in her choices? She selected men she could abandon without a qualm. Was it an aphrodisiac for her to feel superior to the men she slept with?
The more I learned about Monica, the less I liked her. She used people as though they were paper towels. Such conduct could easily earn retribution. If Barclay hatched a plan to abduct and ransom Monica, Jerome might have cooperated because he was hurt, not greedy. The man loved the grounds of Briarcliff. Had he loved Monica equally, her heartless conduct might have pushed him too far.
The cottage was small, but time worked against me. I rushed to get through it without leaving any indication I’d been there.
When I finished with the kitchen cabinets, I looked out the window. Almost hidden in scuppernong vines that Jerome had allowed to swallow a wild cherry was a small fountain. The vines, the natural trees—these were not what I’d expect in Jerome’s backyard. He was a gardener, one who created and maintained the more formal Briarcliff grounds. Scuppernongs and cherry trees were “volunteer” plants. Many considered them weeds or trash.
I loved the wild grapes, and I could see the purple clusters, ready for harvest, hanging on the vine. I walked out, intending to gather a handful to eat before the storm broke. Once I got to the natural arbor, though, I realized this was a place created by design, not happenstance. Behind the curtain of vines, a hammock was strung between two small trees.
On the hammock was a wooden box. Elegantly carved, exquisite craftsmanship, and beside it, tools. Jerome not only gardened, he was gifted in woodworking and design. The boat replica in his cottage showed equal talent.
The elegance of the box drew me to it, and when I picked it up, something inside shifted about. Letters.
I opened the lid and smelled cedar. The wood grain glowed red in the summer light. At least five dozen letters were neatly organized. They’d been read and reread, and none of the envelopes bore a postmark or even a name. They’d been personally delivered.
Knowing Monica’s penchant for cruelty, I was almost hesitant to read them, because I had no doubt they were love letters. And Jerome cherished them. He’d taken them to his place of respite to read again, never dreaming a snoopy private investigator would find them and invade his privacy.
Which was exactly what Eleanor was paying me to do.
I opened the first letter and began to scan it.
My dearest Jerome, the gardens are thriving under your care. You have a gift.
Such tenderness from Monica was a revelation. I checked for a date, but there was none, so I continued.
Tonight we can be alone. Meet me in the back garden. In the moonlight we can plan the future of Briarcliff. Monica has no interest in living here. Soon she’ll be off on another adventure. Then we’ll have the house and grounds to ourselves.
That line stopped me cold. I checked the bottom of the letter, but there was no signature. I didn’t need one to know the author. I read on.
You know there are limits. Our relationship must always remain private, just between us. I’ve always been honest with you about that fact. But once she’s gone, we can share a life together as fully and completely as if we were wed.
With all my heart
My legs seemed rubbery as I sank onto the hammock. Of all the things I’d expected to find, evidence of a love affair between Jerome and Eleanor had not been among them.
This put a new spin on the entire investigation. Had Eleano
r paid someone to abduct Monica? In my mind I heard again the splash of a nightgown-clad object hitting the water of the mighty Mississippi. It was a helluva way to get rid of a body—and one in the tradition of the Levert family.
Though Gunny had organized a river search, no body had ever been found. Since Eleanor had convinced the police all was well, there’d been no need for Gunny to continue searching.
“Holy moly,” I muttered. If this was true, Eleanor was a mastermind. She’d stolen the family necklace, collected the four-million payoff, and gotten rid of the sister.
The sky rumbled and the first rain began to fall. A bolt of lightning flashed and struck so close the blast nearly deafened me. The ground shook and sulfur filled my nostrils, making me slightly nauseated.
Now that was an odor I could easily identify with Briarcliff and the inhabitants. If I were the type to believe in curses, I wouldn’t doubt that the heirs of Barthelme Levert were in the clutches of a dark blight. I didn’t know if it was possible for DNA to be corrupted by evil, but I also didn’t know if it was impossible.
I had to get back to Tinkie. She was alone with Eleanor.
13
Jerome stood on the front lawn in the pelting rain with Sweetie and Chablis. He’d tied a rope around their necks and glowered at me when I got out of the car.
“I waited on the road for you,” he said. “Where were you?”
“I made the loop. Twice. I must have missed you.” My acting skills were good, but Jerome could calculate time and distance. He’d snared my lie, and though he might suspect me, he wasn’t sure of what.
“Keep the beasts on a leash, else you’ll find them yourself next time.” He thrust the ropes into my hand and stalked off. I didn’t need my psychic friend Madame Tomeeka to tell me his thoughts were ugly and directed at me, but I had my doubts about him, too.
His long stride quickly took him down the garden path. He disappeared in the sheets of rain that fell from the leaden sky. No doubt he was worried about the letters he’d left outside where the rain might ruin them. I’d taken care to shut the box firmly and knew no water would get inside. Such was the craftsmanship. Jerome’s memories were safe, but they might not remain private for much longer.
I dashed through the downpour with the dogs and stood while they shook themselves on the stone entrance.
“Stay here.” I put the word on Sweetie. She was mostly obedient and a fabulous hound. But her head could be turned by a handsome canine such as her last beau, a New York harrier named Danny. The two dogs had given me a bad turn when they’d turned Bonnie and Clyde in a shoe-thieving campaign across Sunflower County while I was out of town on a case. Poor Oscar, their designated caregiver, had nearly had a heart attack.
I cradled Sweetie’s soft muzzle and lifted her soulful eyes to mine. “Don’t leave,” I told her.
Eleanor had offered to let Sweetie and Chablis stay at Briarcliff, but a dry dog and a wet dog were two different animals. I didn’t want to presume. The rain would let up and Sweetie would shake herself dry. Chablis could be easily toweled, so I took her inside. Hunting for something with which to dry the dog would give me the perfect excuse to poke around the mansion.
I’d made a serious miscalculation when I’d asked Eleanor to search Briarcliff. I’d assumed. While it might be logical to trust that the person paying me to find her missing sister would really want the sister found, it was still a mistake. And one that could easily result in injury for me or Tinkie. If Eleanor was that diabolical—and that pissed off at Monica—she wouldn’t think twice about putting her hired investigators in the way of danger.
Or possibly killing her own sister.
As I slipped into the house, I heard the murmur of voices. Tinkie and Eleanor were in the ladies’ parlor. Easing upstairs, I went to Eleanor’s bathroom. Instead of the linen closet, I opened the medicine cabinet. There wasn’t a single prescription bottle in sight. Vitamin D, E, C, and over-the-counter antioxidants were her only “medicines.”
In the wastebasket I hit pay dirt. The little amber prescription bottle was in Eleanor’s name. I recognized the drug as one popular among unhappy people who suffered from anxiety. It was powerful. Used improperly in heavy doses, the medication could render a person nearly comatose. Or dead.
The prescription had been filled only the week before, yet the bottle was empty. This wasn’t proof positive Eleanor drugged her sister in order to abduct her—and might be keeping her drugged if Monica was still alive—but it was certainly circumstantial.
Footsteps approached the bathroom. I grabbed a towel and began to vigorously dry Chablis. The little dustmop growled at my enthusiasm, but when the door opened and Eleanor gasped at my unexpected presence, I successfully feigned innocence.
“I hope it was okay to use a towel from this bathroom,” I said. “Chablis was soaked and I didn’t want her to shake in the house.”
“It’s fine,” Eleanor said, but her face told another story. She was pale and her words came out clipped. “There are numerous bathrooms upstairs and down. This is my private bath.”
“So sorry.” I picked up Chablis. Another low growl warned me I was on her shit list. I’d slipped the prescription bottle into my pocket and I used the towel to cover the bulge. “Where’s Tinkie?”
“Downstairs waiting for you. She said you were fetching the dogs from Jerome.”
I was all concern. “Did you get the check thing resolved?”
“Oscar will help me, but it can’t be done overnight. What if the kidnappers call and I can’t get the ransom?” She sounded scared. No matter what role Eleanor might be playing in this drama, I had no proof of any wrongdoing. Like every other suspect, she had motive, means, and opportunity, but nothing yet proved her guilty.
“I’m sure Oscar will work this out.” I patted her shoulder. “Do you think the abductor will call again this evening?”
She nodded. “I know he will. I feel it. And if I can’t meet his demands, he’ll kill Monica.”
I had to give her credit. She was a damn fine actress—if this was an act. Such talent came with the bloodline. Her distant ancestor, Terrant Cassio, had been the only woman to pull the wool over Barthelme’s eyes. She’d willingly married a murderer with five dead wives. And in a beautiful moment of irony, the minute he’d married her, he’d been done for. The fox had been stalked by a tiger.
That was the DNA the Levert sisters descended from. Monica abandoned her own child—if Barclay was telling the truth. She’d deliberately set out to wreck the homes of her Natchez peers. She’d slept with the significant others of her friends, and maybe even of her own sister. Why was I finding it hard to believe Eleanor would abduct and possible kill her flesh and blood? The whole family was capable of any deviant act.
“Call in the cops, Eleanor. Tell Gunny the truth.”
She shook her head. “I can’t risk it.”
“The risk is open to interpretation. You stand to gain a lot if Monica is dead.” I withdrew the empty prescription bottle from my pocket and held it out. “Care to explain this?”
Eleanor started to reach for the bottle but faltered. “I should be angry you’re snooping around my house, but I’m not. In a strange way, I feel better. You’re really searching for Monica.”
Her reaction wasn’t what I’d expected. “There should be almost thirty pills here. They’re all gone.”
Eleanor brushed her hair back from her forehead. “I flushed them down the toilet. When I found myself holding the prescription bottle, thinking about taking them all, wanting only the release of … death. I put them out of my reach.” She straightened her posture. “You see, I can’t go on without Monica. She is my other half, my twin, the person who completes me. Without her, I don’t want to live.”
“But you didn’t take them.”
“If Monica can be saved, I have to do it. This one time, I must be courageous. I will be the strong sister, the one who doesn’t falter. I’ll figure a way to pay the ransom.”
; “Before you risk any money, you need to be certain Monica is still alive.” I deliberately made my voice cold. “We need proof of life.”
My tone shocked her. She stepped back and narrowed her eyes. “She has to be alive. I’ve done everything the kidnapper asked.”
“I don’t think he—or she—or they—have to play by any set of rules. You need to understand this up front. Criminals who abduct people have already broken a whole bunch of laws. Expecting them to play by rules, even ones they impose, is foolish.” My cruelty surprised even me.
Eleanor blanched. “Do you really think she’s dead? She can’t be.”
I couldn’t push it any harder. She was about to faint. “I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s wait for the kidnapper’s call.” Abruptly I walked past her and down the hall to the stairs. “Tinkie, I have Chablis,” I called out.
I needed my partner to occupy Eleanor so I could search Briarcliff again. It would give me something to do to pass the time until the kidnapper called.
If he called.
If he’d ever called in the first place.
* * *
As it turned out, I didn’t need Tinkie to distract Eleanor. My conversation with her sent her straight to her bed with a migraine.
When I reported the encounter—and my suspicions—Tinkie was a tiny bit miffed.
“We have no proof, and you all but said her sister was dead.” Tinkie cuddled Chablis to her face. I’d toweled Sweetie, and she was napping on the floor beside the sofa in the ladies’ parlor where Tinkie and I were having a powwow. “Don’t you remember how you felt when Coleman accused you of murder on circumstantial evidence?”
Tinkie was good at applying the taser to my weak spots. Being falsely accused was unpleasant. “I told Eleanor the truth.”
“The harshest truth. I saw her just before she took to her bed. I thought she’d keel over.”
Tinkie had a point. Eleanor had looked sickened at the thought her sister wouldn’t survive the ordeal. Her explanation of the prescription drugs was plausible. And she didn’t seem overly concerned about the loss of the ransom money.
Bones of a Feather: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Page 14