Them Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  Tammy’s dark eyes held a warning when she did turn to face me. “I told Tinkie Bellcase what I saw in the cards. A dark man returns. I didn’t say anything about Hamilton Garrett.” She dared me to take it further.

  “Tinkie assumes it’s Hamilton.”

  “She assumes plenty. I could make you a list. Not everything revolves around Tinkie Bellcase and her silly fantasies. A dark man doesn’t necessarily mean tall, dark, and handsome. Dark can mean bad, evil.” She put more pressure on the cut finger.

  I hadn’t realized that Tammy truly disliked Tinkie. Tammy’s bitterness toward the Daddy’s Girls was understandable, but Tinkie was no worse than the others. “She’s hired me to find out the truth about the Garrett family.”

  My words stopped Tammy cold. “That’s a job you’d be better off without.”

  “I need the money. If I don’t do this, I’ll lose Dahlia House next week.”

  Financial troubles were something Tammy knew about. She also knew desperation. I remember when she got pregnant. She was a few years older than me, a fine athlete and a smart girl with real scholarship potential. Claire had put an end to all of that.

  Tammy picked up the knife. She stared at it a moment before she started chopping again. “I can’t help you, Sarah.”

  “Tinkie aside, do you remember anything about the Garretts?”

  “They had a nasty habit of dying unexpectedly.”

  “Other than that?”

  She dumped the peppers into the frying pan and turned it on. In a moment there was the teasing smell of sautéing onions and garlic. “That family has suffered,” she said. “They were cursed.”

  I was never certain how much Tammy believed of what she told the people who came to her, but there was no doubt that she believed some of it. “The entire family? Like a genetic thing?” I tried not to sound flip.

  “All of them, yes. In the blood. Cursed with power and reckless abandon. The combination never brings anything but pain. And especially Hamilton. He had the mark of the curse on his hand,” she said. She lifted her face to the ceiling, and I wondered if she was praying. “I saw it there, and I knew that he couldn’t escape it.”

  “What kind of mark?” She was making me feel creepy, but only just the tiniest bit. Healthy skepticism is also a Delaney trait—and this from a woman who lives with a ghost.

  “The star of Saturn and the girdle of Venus, a thumb firm and mounded, like his mother’s. He bore the mark of great sexual power.”

  I felt the hair along my neck begin to stand. But of course, Cece and Madame Tomeeka were thick as thieves. They would each exacerbate the other’s theories. I rolled my eyes at my own gullible subconscious. I was as bad as the rest of them.

  “My dance card is a little boring. Is this sexual powerhouse headed back to Zinnia?” I asked.

  Tammy looked at me long and hard. “If he does come back, you don’t want to dance with him. Tragedy follows his footsteps.”

  “Then he is coming home.” I was shocked. I’d actually thought the whole “Hamilton returns” thing was something Tammy had fabricated to drain Tinkie’s pockets.

  Tammy’s dark eyes were empty of all emotion. “It’s the holidays. Folks like to be at home.” She shrugged. “Even Garretts.”

  I decided to probe the past. “I heard Hamilton cut the brake line to his mother’s car. Do you think he’s capable of that?”

  “You want me to tell you a secret?” she said, staring at me with those dead eyes that made my skeptical Delaney hide do a little goose dance. The kitchen was suddenly too hot, and the cooking onion and garlic were overpowering. I needed to step outside into the fresh air and clear my head.

  Tammy leaned across the table and lifted my hand in hers. “I don’t need my cards to see your future, Sarah. Stay away from Hamilton Garrett, his affairs, and all of his associates. You want to save your home, but you risk your very soul. Let the dead lie buried.”

  6

  “Mrs. Kepler! Mrs. Kepler! Please open the door.” I stood outside the library in the falling dusk and stared through the glass at the older woman who primly stacked the books. It was nearly five o’clock, and the library was officially closed. Mrs. Kepler had never broken a rule in her entire life. But I wasn’t about to slink quietly into the approaching night.

  My turkey was soaking in a sink of hot water—a definite salmonella no-no, according to Jitty. The pumpkin pie was cooling on the porch, and all was ready for the feast. I had been up to my elbows in giblets when it occurred to me that the library would have all the back issues of The Zinnia Dispatch.

  “Mrs. Kepler, please! It’s an emergency!” I pounded louder. I could see that I was getting under her skin. Her face was pinking up and she turned her shoulder to me. “Let me in!” I pounded until I thought the bones in my fists would shatter.

  She put her books down on the counter and came toward the door, her face the proper reflection of disdain, annoyance, and a pinch of sadness.

  “Sarah Booth, whatever are you trying to do?” she asked as she opened the door a crack. “This conduct is unacceptable.”

  “I need to look at the back issues of the Dispatch.” I tried to hustle past her but she was having none of that. She was old, but she wasn’t about to be bullied.

  “It’s Wednesday; the library always closes at noon on Wednesday. And it’s a holiday to boot. If I weren’t so far behind I wouldn’t be up here working late. And I don’t need interruptions.” She reached out a hand and felt my forehead. “Your mother would be appalled by your behavior. Are you ill?”

  “Sick with desperation,” I said. There was no other way. I was going to have to throw myself on her mercy. “Please, I need to find out something tonight.”

  “Come back Friday,” she said gently. “I was just finishing up, and I want to go home.”

  “Please, Mrs. Kepler,” I begged. “Please, this is very important. It won’t take longer than half an hour.”

  “Why, Sarah Booth,” she said, frowning. “Rules are rules. You know that. Though Elizabeth Marie was a little unorthodox, your aunt LouLane knew the importance of orderly conduct.”

  “I know if you don’t let me see those newspapers, I’ll do something desperate.”

  “Sarah!” Her hand went to her throat. “What are you saying?”

  I’d actually meant something like push her aside, but she mistook my meaning. I drew my hand across my throat and grimaced. “It’s life or death. Mine,” I whispered.

  It was the whisper that did it. She stepped aside. “You can look until I’m ready to leave.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” I said, jumping from foot to foot. Before she could change her mind I was back in the reference section pulling out the bound editions of the paper from 1979.

  I knew Hamilton the Fourth was killed during dove season, which would begin around September, so I started there. It would be front page, so that made the search easier. I had the story in record time.

  Hamilton the Fourth was found dead in a cornfield owned by Delo Wiley on October 23, 1979, during the second dove season. Mr. Wiley had gone out to the field to search for him when he hadn’t come in with the other hunters at dusk.

  The death had been ruled accidental by Coroner Fel Harper. No autopsy had been performed; no charges filed. The newspaper account was not graphic, but it was clear that Hamilton the Fourth had been shot in the throat at close range. I read the account and came to two possible conclusions—murder or suicide. Sheriff Pasco Walters ruled accidental death.

  In the code of the Southern gentleman, hunting accidents are a noble way to die. No need to assign guilt to your hunting partners if they blast you to kingdom come. No need to pursue suicide if the family is wealthy enough to buy silence.

  But it was a little beyond the pale that one of Sunflower County’s most prominent men could have been murdered, and deputies, coroners, family members, and friends had all conspired to brush it under the rug.

  Unless, of course, it was Hamilton the Fifth w
ho pulled the trigger. That would cast a whole ’nother light on matters. Cece was right. Money could buy a verdict, or kill an investigation.

  Fel Harper was still the county coroner. He was also not likely to tell the truth to me if he’d been involved in a cover-up.

  I flipped forward through the newspapers, fighting the morbid compulsion to seek out the stories about my parents’ deaths. This was not about me or my past. I had a job to do.

  I scanned through January and found the story in the February 10 issue. The death of Veronica Hampton Garrett was also front page with photos—what was left of an expensive sports car and an old society picture of her. She looked like a movie star, with her hair piled up with glittering combs and a diamond necklace around her throat. Blond and beautiful.

  I examined the car again. It looked as if it had been placed in a compactor and squeezed. No one could have survived that crash. And the tree didn’t look too healthy, either.

  I read the story, which said Veronica Garrett had been traveling the Knob Hill Road toward home at a high rate of speed when she lost control of the car and struck a tree.

  The accident wasn’t discovered for several hours. Hamilton the Fifth had found his mother’s body when he passed by on his way home from a date. He called an ambulance, but his mother was dead.

  The verdict you can afford—Cece’s words again.

  “Sarah Booth! We have to be going.” Mrs. Kepler had her purse on her arm and was waiting at the door.

  I closed the files and put them away. Damn! I hadn’t really found anything, and I’d bruised my perfectly good fists on the library door. And then it struck me. I had discovered something. Two violent deaths had been passed off as accidents. Two prominent people, in the same family, died brutally within a four-month span, and both were ruled accidental.

  Someone in the sheriff’s office wasn’t doing a very good job.

  After a Jong and restless night, I was determined to put the case aside and have Thanksgiving. I dressed festive—newest black jeans and elegant russet velour blouse. The dining room table gleamed with silver and candles. I’d set two place settings, though I didn’t know if Jitty would eat with me. I wasn’t certain she ate at all. Mostly she mumbled and complained. But this was a holiday, and she was as close to family as I was going to get.

  The turkey was a golden masterpiece, and I hauled it into the dining room as the piece de résistance of the meal. The sweet potato casserole steamed, along with the green beans and dressing. Everything was perfect as I lifted my glass of wine.

  “To the future. It looks as if we may actually have one.” I was pumped about my discovery at the library and about evading Harold for the holiday meal.

  “You start foolin’ around like some gender-busted Sam Spade, you gone get your butt caught in a crack.” Jitty had taken her place at the table, but she didn’t seem overly impressed with the spread.

  “Jitty, I can do this. Besides, it’s sort of exciting.”

  “Yeah, that man from Austin was exciting, too. What was it the prison psychologist said about him? Sociopath with paranoid tendencies? When you start usin’ the word ‘exciting,’ I start thinkin’ this is not a good thing.”

  The bad thing about family is that they remember every little mistake, and they feel free to throw it in your face. “This is different. This is a job, not a man.”

  “It’s a job about a man—potentially a man who killed his mama. I don’t like this Hamilton Garrett. No, ma’am, he sounds a lot like Mr. Texas.”

  “His name was Felix,” I mumbled. “Felix Manson.” Jitty’s hearing was acute and selective. Death had given her the equivalent of bat ears. She heard exactly what she wanted.

  “And that didn’t give you a clue, did it?” she asked.

  “It wasn’t his real name, anyway.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, puckering her lips in the way I hated. “He picked the name Manson. That tells me a lot. If you had half a brain, it would tell you plenty, too. But you were too busy being excited by him to notice something like that.”

  It was time to move on. Jitty was ruining my meal with her memory. Felix Manson had been a mistake, but I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of agreeing with her.

  “I have to do something to earn some money fast, and this opportunity has presented itself. Now eat your dinner and quit finding fault with everything I do.”

  “Uh-oh, company’s coming.” She vanished before I could say another word.

  The doorbell chimed and I peeped out the window, shocked to see a young black woman holding an infant. Jitty’s relatives? I wasn’t aware that she’d had children.

  It wasn’t until I opened the door that I recognized Tammy’s daughter and the infant named after my home.

  “Claire!” I swung the door wide and opened my arms.

  She stepped into them with a smile. “Miss Sarah,” she said, ducking her head in the old, shy way. “This is Dahlia,” she said, holding out the infant.

  Babies are not of particular interest to me, but I took Dahlia and was surprised to see her smile. “Come in, Claire. I was just having some dinner. Come eat with me.”

  “Mama already fed us,” she said, grinning, “but it’s Thanksgiving. I can make room for a little more.”

  A person with a lot of relatives can eat eight or ten times on big holidays. Although most people serve the traditional foods, there are subtle variations that make sampling one of the joys of life.

  Claire stopped at the table, noting the place settings for two. “Are you expecting someone?” she asked.

  “I had a hunch someone might stop by.” I waved her into the other chair, handed off the baby, and began to fill her plate.

  We chatted about the baby and her schoolwork, which she assured me wasn’t suffering. I watched her closely. She was too thin. The baby had cost her deeply, though it was clear to see she loved the child. I didn’t ask about Dahlia’s father. If there was anything to tell, Claire would get around to it.

  “I guess you’re wondering why I came,” she finally said, pushing her empty plate away.

  “You don’t need a reason to visit me,” I answered.

  “I’ve got one.” She modestly lifted her shirt to feed the baby, who’d begun to fret. “It’s Mama. She’s worried about you.” Claire’s soft brown eyes held mine. “She thinks you’re in some kind of danger. She had a dream.”

  “What kind of dream?” I meant to say something about her dream being ridiculous, but curiosity won out. I wanted to know.

  Claire shifted the baby slightly. “She said you were doing dangerous things.” Claire took a breath. “Miss Sarah, you’ve always liked to have adventures, but whatever you’re doing now has got Mama really upset.” She took another breath. “I’ve already worried her sick.”

  “I’ll talk with her,” I promised.

  “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing dangerous, I swear.” She drilled me with those big eyes. “I’m looking into an old scandal. Something that happened twenty years ago. None of it matters now, except to the woman who’s paying me. And I need the money. But it isn’t dangerous. Everyone who was involved is either dead or has moved away.”

  “Some buried things stink bad when they’re dug up,” she said.

  “It’s not like I intend to publish it in the newspaper. This is for a private client.” I liked the sound of that.

  “You’re determined, aren’t you?” There was resignation in her voice.

  “I need the money, Claire. If I don’t earn some cash, I’ll lose Dahlia House.”

  She looked around her, perhaps remembering the months she lived with me when Tammy was having her own personal problems.

  “This place has belonged to your family since it was built. Over a hundred years.”

  “That’s right.” I was pleased that she’d troubled to remember some of the stories I’d told her.

  Her smile was gentle and suddenly wise for a seventeen-year-old. “Mama thinks I’m a victim o
f her past,” she said softly. “She doesn’t want to see you become a casualty of yours.”

  “We’re all victims of our past,” I said. It was a hard way to look at things, but it was true. History, genetics, environment—not much room left for the old free-will principle.

  “Don’t let this big old house be the death of you, Miss Sarah.”

  “Did your mother tell you to say that?” I smiled so that she’d know I wasn’t angry.

  “No, not exactly.” She pulled the blanket tighter around little Dahlia and shook her head. “She told me to leave you alone. She said if I talked to you it would only make you more stubborn.” Her lips hinted at a smile as she watched for my reaction. “I came because I wanted to see you, and I wanted you to see Dahlia. Mama is part of it, but I wanted to see for myself.”

  “And are you reassured?” I cut the pumpkin pie and slid a piece onto a crested Delaney saucer.

  “No, I’m not reassured. I’m more worried. This man you’re investigating, Hamilton Garrett. You should talk to Mama again. She hasn’t told you everything she knows.”

  “Tammy never tells everything she knows.” I placed the pie in front of Claire. “Pumpkin pie is the best possible nutrient base for breast milk. Eat up.”

  I caught her by surprise and was rewarded by her full laugh. Claire had always been a delight, and I could see that she was growing into a beautiful woman.

  She lifted the fork, and even with a baby in her arms she was graceful. Still smiling, she said, “So along with becoming a detective you’ve founded the Zinnia La Leche Organization. You’re a busy woman.”

  “I try.” I was glad the topic had been shifted from dark and dire. Even babies were preferable.

  “Miss Sarah, do you know who my father is?”

  The question was as effective as a mule kick. Tammy had never told me diddly about the father of her child. And she obviously hadn’t told Claire, which, I suddenly realized, was what this holiday visit was really about.

  “Tammy keeps her own secrets,” I said. Telling the truth was easy when it fit my purposes. “She never said.”