Bones of a Feather: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery

by Carolyn Haines

  “Hightower?” I knelt down.

  “Thank god. Help me.”

  “Did the horse trample you?” If so, it would be best not to move him.

  “I’ve been beaten.”

  It was impossible to see much in the fog, so I relied on feel. When I touched his head, something warm, wet, and sticky coated my fingers. His wound was bleeding profusely.

  “Who hurt you?” I tried to find the source of the blood. I tugged at one of the leather straps and found a camera with a telephoto lens. Another strap was connected to night-vision goggles. “What the hell?”

  “I can explain. Monica said I could help her, that she needed me.” He clutched my shirt. “She set me up.”

  He had to be delirious. “I have to get help for you.” This was easier said than done, since I wasn’t certain I could find my way back to him in the pea soup if I went to the house for help.

  “Find Monica!” He pulled himself into a sitting position by holding on to my shirt. “She’s in dire straits.” The accent was restored, and Hightower appeared to be regaining his strength. The fog had suffocated the night sounds, and I had the sense that danger lurked in the misty darkness, but my ears detected no movement. The sense of urgency to get Hightower up and moving was great, though. Sweetie was bird-dogging another intruder.

  “Who attacked you?”

  “The fog was so thick. I saw someone. I thought it was Monica. She struck me.” He slumped, and I thought he’d fainted.

  Instead, his grip tightened and he drew me down so that his face was in my hair. “Listen,” he whispered.

  I heard it then—limbs rustling and snapping and the harsh breathing of someone running.

  He grasped at my neck and shoulders, trying to gain his feet. “We have to find her. She’ll do harm to herself. Like her mother. She’ll throw herself off the cliff. The Levert family is unstable.” His fingers dug into my shoulders.

  My impulse was to push him back to the ground, but I controlled it. If I could get him to the path, I could leave him while I went for help. It was my only option.

  “Work with me.” I put his arm around my neck and pulled him up.

  “Forget about me! Find Monica!” He lurched and I almost fell, with him on top of me. That was it. I snapped. I didn’t care for the pompous man and his disappearing British accent. He was making it impossible for me to help him.

  “Hightower, we’re going to the path. Then I’m going for help. But you’re going to do what I say, and if you push me again…” My threats were empty, and I knew it.

  To my utter astonishment, he moaned. “I never meant for any of this to happen. Never. I’ve been in love with Monica since the first. I thought she loved me, too. I thought we’d have a future together. I would write and she would be my muse. I only threatened to write about her mother’s tragic death because—” He broke down completely. “She threw me over.”

  “If you ever want to see Monica again, get up and walk!”

  Sniffling and whimpering, he pulled himself together and we inched toward where I thought the path might be. He was heavy, and by the time we’d gone only a few yards, I was sweating. Off in the distance, I heard Sweetie’s loud bay. She’d treed something. “Come on, Hightower. We’re almost there.”

  “Listen!”

  He didn’t have to warn me. I heard it, too. Something was running toward us. It came through the underbrush fast, without regard for injury. I remembered the black horse that had nearly trampled me. I couldn’t afford to let go of Hightower. If he fell, I might never get him to his feet again.

  I swung the flashlight just as a buck crashed through a hock holly and leaped right at me.

  “Arrrghhh!” Hightower cried as he pushed against me, gained his balance, and began to run like he’d trained for the Iron Man competition. I hooked his leather camera strap and hung on until it broke. I fell to the ground clutching the camera and rolled, mad enough to kill him. The man had sacrificed me to save his own skin. And if he was injured, he didn’t show it as he hauled ass.

  The deer veered north, Hightower south. I sat in the middle of the woods holding his camera and doing my best to hold my temper.

  “Hightower?” I called out. “Hightower?”

  Nothing. Far in the distance, I heard Sweetie Pie at work. I swung the flashlight beam and caught a beautiful piece of gossamer lace dangling from a limb. The same lace we’d discovered the night Monica disappeared.

  The scrap of material could have blown about the property for the last three days. Or the person who’d assaulted Hightower—if he was assaulted—could have left the lace for me to find. Or Hightower could have planted it. He knew about Monica’s mother’s strange death. If he was masterminding the abduction, he could be setting the scene for another “suicide.”

  And I’d let him escape.

  Using Sweetie’s bay as a guide, I stumbled onto the path again. Sweetie seemed to be leading me toward the gardener’s cottage. If Jerome was involved … if Monica was safely inside … I couldn’t hope for a better outcome.

  “Get ’im, Sweetie,” I whispered under my breath.

  To my utter delight, the fog was lifting at long last. From my knees down, the air was clear. Even at eye level it was beginning to thin. My joy was short-lived when I heard my dog cry out. Sweetie had been taken by surprise.

  And then silence.

  I stopped, the only sound my breath. I didn’t want to call out to Sweetie. If someone had harmed her, he might be waiting for me.

  I stood for several moments as the fog dissipated and the path cleared. I couldn’t hear Sweetie or anyone else. The night seemed completely empty. I felt entirely alone.

  Moving stealthily, I continued toward the cottage. No light showed inside, but I could still break in and use the telephone to get help. Tinkie could be here in a car in a matter of minutes, and I was done with shutting out the police. I wanted Gunny and a squad of officers on the scene. Monica, Sweetie, Hightower, and Jerome were MIA, and I intended that they be found and forced to give an explanation of their actions. Well, not Sweetie. Her actions were perfect, as usual.

  As I neared the front porch, I saw her. My dog sprawled across the steps, unmoving.

  “Sweetie!” I threw caution to the wind and ran to her. She was breathing. Her chest rose and fell in shallow gasps. Blood leaked from her mouth and down her chest.

  Tied to her collar with a strip of gossamer lace was a note. I used the flashlight to read it. “Stop screwing around and get the money. Otherwise Monica is dead, and you won’t be far behind.”

  “I’ll get help,” I reassured Sweetie as I readied the gun and opened the cottage door. I needed a landline, and woe be unto anyone who got in my path.

  “Jerome!” I called out, but there was no answer. My fingers found the light switch. The cottage was empty. To my immense relief, the phone still worked. I called Tinkie, my fingers clumsy on the buttons. She answered groggily.

  “Come to Jerome’s cottage. Hurry, please.”

  “Sarah Booth.” She was wide awake. “What happened? Why are you out on the grounds in the middle of the night?”

  “Sweetie is hurt. Don’t leave Eleanor alone. Bring her, but hurry.”

  “What—I’m on the way.” Tinkie wouldn’t waste time with questions since my hound was injured. “Hang on, Sarah Booth. We’ll be there in three minutes.”

  * * *

  By the time Tinkie and Eleanor arrived with the car, I’d revived Sweetie. The side of her head was cut and she was groggy, but otherwise not seriously injured. Fuming with a desire to rip the offender’s throat out, I stroked Sweetie and whispered comforting nonsense to her.

  Tinkie careened up to the front porch in the Caddy, unconcerned by the branches scratching her tomato red paint job.

  “Is Sweetie okay?” Tinkie asked as she and Eleanor hurried toward me.

  “Where’s Jerome?” Eleanor’s voice caught, as though emotion clogged her throat. She motioned at the open door. “He never lea
ves the cottage unlocked. Is he inside?”

  “What, exactly, is your relationship with the gardener?” I’d had it with lies and half-truths.

  “What do you mean? I haven’t seen Jerome since this morning when he was mulching the roses.” Eleanor’s tone was stiff.

  “Cut the act.” I ran my hand over Sweetie’s soft fur and waited for her to show me she was ready to move. “I know about your affair with Jerome.”

  She didn’t say anything, but she closed her eyes as if shutting out memories. “He wouldn’t have told you. How did you find out?”

  “We’re investigators. It’s what we do. Now I want the truth. All of it. My dog has been injured, John Hightower is running around Briarcliff bleeding, and your sister is involved with people who may harm her.”

  “I don’t know anything about John Hightower,” Eleanor said. “He’s always snooping around snapping photos. He was probably here spying. He tried to blackmail us—I told you that. He fell in love with Monica, and she treated him poorly, as she has so many others. That’s all I know about him. I swear it.”

  “Then where’s Jerome?”

  “I wish I could answer.”

  The defeat in her voice made me believe her. “Eleanor, I don’t know what games you and Monica are engineering.” I thrust the note and scrap of nightgown at her. “This sounds serious. We need the police. Otherwise, Tinkie and I are out of here.”

  Before she could answer, another cry for help came from behind Jerome’s cottage. This time it was a woman.

  “Help me! I saw the car lights! Help!”

  “Who the hell is that?” Tinkie asked.

  Sweetie lifted her head and gave a mournful bay.

  “I think that was who Sweetie was chasing. This is like a Monty Python comedy, except it’s not funny and people and dogs are being hurt.” I picked up a flashlight and eased out from under Sweetie’s head. “Stay here, girl.”

  My hound was having none of it. She faltered to her feet and shook, then cocked her head.

  “Help! I’m up here!”

  With a brisk arf, Sweetie led us around the cottage to a tall magnolia tree.

  “I’m up here!”

  I aimed the flashlight. Tinkie and Eleanor added the strength of their beams. Caught in the light was Millicent Gentry, dressed all in black. Her pale face glowed in the illumination.

  “That dog”—she pointed at Sweetie—“tried to tear my legs off. I got lucky and gave her a good lick with a magnolia pod.”

  “What are you doing on Briarcliff land?” Eleanor sounded imperious.

  “It won’t be yours forever,” Millicent said haughtily.

  “Why are you here?” I repeated, my aggravation showing.

  “I don’t have to answer your questions.” She shot me the bird.

  I handed Tinkie the .38. “Shoot her,” I said. “She’s trespassing and she tried to attack us.”

  “That’s a damn lie—”

  I cut her off. “It’s our story and we’re sticking to it.”

  “I just love it when you let me follow my urges.” Tinkie cocked the gun and pointed it at Millicent. Without hesitation she pulled the trigger. A chunk of magnolia only inches from Millicent’s head blasted out of the tree trunk.

  “You crazy bitch!” All smugness had disappeared from Millicent’s face. Eleanor had sense enough to stay quiet.

  “I missed.” Tinkie thumbed the hammer again and made a great pretense of aiming more carefully. “This is embarrassing. I never miss. But you won’t be around to tell anyone about it, Millicent.”

  “I was helping John Hightower set up surveillance equipment. He said he was going to get the goods on Eleanor and Monica for insurance fraud.” She tried to scrabble higher in the tree, but Tinkie fired again, this time just above her head. I had to hand it to my partner, she was a damn good shot. Close enough to put the fear of god in Millicent, but not a hair on her coiffed head was mussed. Either Tinkie was the reincarnation of Dead-Eye Pete or she’d been practicing behind my back.

  “Come down out of that tree,” I ordered.

  “No. The dog will bite me.”

  “She’s all yours, Tinkie. Shoot her.” I started to walk away as I heard Tinkie cock the gun again.

  “You’re crazy,” Millicent screamed, but she started down.

  “I’ll have you arrested,” Eleanor said hotly. “You’ve been told again and again to stay off this property. Now you’re going to jail.”

  “I saw the horseman.” Millicent dropped to the ground. “I hit the dog with a pod, but it didn’t hurt her. The horseman whacked her with a tree limb. The dog was trying to hem him up.”

  I whirled around. “A horse hasn’t been through here.”

  Millicent wiped her hands on her jeans. “Not the horse, just the rider. He was on foot. Running toward Briarcliff.”

  “Where was the horse?” I asked.

  “How the hell should I know? I meant to follow the rider, but the dog came out of nowhere and sent me up the tree.”

  “Why not sell tickets and let everyone run around Briarcliff at night? Maybe it could be a reality TV show. Find the ghost rider? Hit a dog? Lose a gardener?” Tinkie was outdone. She waggled the gun at Millicent. “You first. You’re going back to the house, and then we’re going to hear the whole story.”

  “Screw you!” Millicent broke to the right, tearing through shrubs and bushes. Sweetie started after her, but I grabbed the dog’s collar when she staggered.

  “Let Millicent go.” I gathered Sweetie into my arms. “We can find her tomorrow. And trust me, she will talk.”

  * * *

  I sat on the floor before a roaring fire with Sweetie’s head in my lap as Eleanor paced the back parlor. Sweetie had fully recovered. The wound wasn’t serious. She’d scarfed down leftover steak and now snoozed in the warmth of the fire Eleanor insisted on lighting. A fire in August—just another Levert eccentricity. But the foul weather, though now dissipated, had cast an air of chill and gloom over the estate. Perhaps the crackling fire wasn’t a total extravagance.

  “I’m so sorry,” Eleanor said for the hundredth time. “I think we should call a veterinarian to be sure Sweetie isn’t injured.”

  Chablis, who’d been shut in Tinkie’s bedroom and missed all the action, gave a tiny yap of agreement. Sweetie thumped the floor with her tail. She basked in the attention. “She’s okay, Eleanor.”

  “Where do you suppose Jerome is?” she asked. She was worried and no longer tried to hide her feelings.

  “I don’t know.”

  Tinkie returned to the room with a tray of coffee. She gave each of us a cup. “Eleanor, we can’t continue like this. John Hightower is on the grounds, maybe injured but not seriously if he can flee like a gazelle. Millicent is conspiring with him. We don’t know what’s happened to Jerome. You haven’t been honest with us about your relationship with Jerome. If we’re going to help, you have to tell us about him.”

  Eleanor sank into a leather sofa, one of the few modern furnishings in the house. “Jerome was born in Scotland. There’s a long family tie to the Leverts. Jerome’s great-great-grandfather captained the Lillith. He was in cahoots with Barthelme. At one point, Barthelme saved his life, and there’s a bond between our families.” Bitterness touched her tone. “Master and servant. Jerome came to Natchez to help my father, and we fell in love.” She gazed out the window into darkness. I thought she’d slipped into a memory. When she spoke again, it was on another subject. “The kidnapper said he would kill Monica.” She faced me. “I’m concerned for Jerome and Mr. Hightower. I hate what happened to your dog. But Monica is my sister, Sarah Booth. If I call the police and it results in her death…”

  She was caught between a rock and a hard place, no doubt of that. “I believe Gunny will use discretion,” I said. “We’ll explain the situation. He’ll make sure that if the kidnapper is watching Briarcliff, his officers won’t be obvious. This is serious, but you have to keep in mind that, so far, except for Sweetie an
d Hightower, no one else has been hurt.”

  “I’m afraid.” Eleanor set her untouched coffee on the low table. “For the first time in my life, I’m truly afraid that whatever action I take will result in injury to someone I care about.”

  “Such as Jerome?” I asked.

  She sighed. “Yes. Jerome. He wouldn’t just leave. Ironic, isn’t it, that he’s been within reach for most of my life, but I wouldn’t take him. Not as my husband. Monica wouldn’t hear of it. So I let class dictate my happiness, and now I have none. My sister is gone, and so is Jerome. Perhaps it’s justice.”

  My palm traced the contours of Sweetie’s warm hide. “You’ve put us in a bad position, Eleanor. Tinkie and I operated in good faith. You’ve lied and withheld vital information. Your life, and your sister’s, are webs of deceit. Sons, lovers—lies at every step. I’m not even certain you and Monica didn’t arrange the theft of the necklace. I feel Tinkie and I must resign from the case.”

  Eleanor stood abruptly. “Please. Please don’t! I need you. I’ve come to rely on you. You’re the only people I trust.”

  My mind was made up. Sweetie could have been killed, and for what? To protect two women who wouldn’t know the truth if it bit them on the leg? “I’m sorry.”

  Tinkie knelt beside me. Her hand drifted over Sweetie’s coat, earning a thump of my dog’s tail. “Sarah Booth is right. We’ve both been injured helping clients, but we won’t be hurt protecting liars.” She stood up. “I’ll pack our things, Sarah Booth. You stay with Sweetie.”

  “I implore you,” Eleanor said. “I don’t have the ransom money. I can’t save Monica without your help. I’ll tell you the truth about everything. It isn’t what it looks like. Monica and I aren’t swindlers. We’ve made bad decisions, but they’ve mostly hurt us.”

  “And Barclay?” I said. “What kind of mother abandons her child because he’s an inconvenience?”

  Eleanor had cast aside all dignity and begged. “Please. Please help me save my sister. Whatever we’ve done, she doesn’t deserve to die alone and scared.”

  Tinkie crossed the room. “Sarah Booth was right in the beginning. We should have insisted the authorities handle this. You need law enforcement to hunt for Jerome and Mr. Hightower. If they’re injured on the property, you need to find them, and quickly.”