I woke up with my hand on my heart, my forehead sweaty, and the sheets tangled around my legs. It took me a few moments to understand that I was safe in Dahlia House and that the only damage I’d suffered was the dark purple imprint of Hamilton the Fifth’s fingers in my shoulder.
Carl Jung considered each person in the dream to be an aspect of the dreamer. According to Jung, I was me, Hamilton the Fifth, and the birds. But I hadn’t really bought into that theory of dream analysis. I also knew someone who would have her own opinion of what my night terrors meant. After I’d visited the sheriff, the coroner, and Billie Roberts’s auto shop, I’d make one more stop, to see Madame Tomeeka. Oh, yeah, and a side trip to Cece to make sure she covered my lie to Hamilton the Fifth, if he bothered to call and check out my story of being a reporter for the Dispatch.
10
The house was strangely empty as I pulled on thick socks and long johns under my gown. Dahlia House was bitterly cold. I stopped in the parlor on my way to the kitchen and pushed back the heavy drapes. The land rolled away from the house in a blanket of white frost. Ice crystals in the sycamore branches and in the tall stubble of the cotton fields glittered as if they’d been coated with fairy dust during the night. My love for Dahlia House lodged in my throat, a physical pain. I could not lose this land. I could not.
Harold’s engagement ring came to mind, and I felt a lessening of the dreadful anxiety that swamped me. I could marry him, and I would, if I had to. A great bitterness against my ancestors rose up in me. I’d been bred and trained to live in Dahlia House, to manage the land. After my parents and Aunt LouLane died, I’d been told that Dahlia House was in a precarious financial position, but I hadn’t grasped the situation. I’d gone on to college as if Prince Charming would ride over the next hill and sweep me into his multiportfolioed arms. I had expected that love and marriage would rescue me—after a successful stage career.
I had not learned to yield those parts of me that had made marriage an agreeable deal for my peers. Marriage, I’d learned by watching my friends, was just another job, and one that often cut deeply into a woman’s independence and self-esteem. In the world of Daddy’s Girls, woman made life comfortable for man by subjugating herself to his every whim, and man brought home the woolly mammoth of blue-chip stocks. Though I didn’t like the system, I could not deny that in more cases than not, it worked. Bliss, or even ordinary happiness, was not guaranteed in any marriage. The Daddy’s Girls were not blissful, but nor were they hollow-eyed with anxiety over finances. They had fulfilled their expectations.
Catching the male was an entire course of study for Delta girls, and Ole Miss was the preferred hunting ground. My four years there had been wasted. I should have bagged a man, or at the very least a business or engineering or medical degree. Had I really understood that I, Sarah Booth Delaney, could be parted from my home, I would have learned a profession or trade. I would have learned how to make money so that I didn’t have to try and take someone else’s, whether by theft or marriage.
What I had done was take my drama minor and my independence to New York, where’d I’d spent an interesting decade of failure and frustration, for Broadway took no notice of the last of the Delaneys, no matter how hard I tried.
But that was the past, and I had to work with what I had. Even though Tinkie’s assignment was giving me some major anxiety and bad-ass dreams, it was something I had a flair for. I could make this work for me, and for my clients. If I discovered the truth of the Garrett family, I could redeem myself for stealing Tinkie’s dog. I could return Harold’s ring with a tender rejection. In other words, I could afford to be a lady.
I shuffled into the kitchen and put on coffee. The old percolator spurted and sizzled, and in a moment the robust aroma made the kitchen seem warmer. The view out the window was of the cemetery. There were over a hundred graves there. All Delaneys, their spouses, and their children. My parents were there, and Aunt LouLane. And all fifty-seven of her cats.
There was a place for me. And enough room for my husband and children. The Delaneys had been great planners, and when the cemetery had been laid out, people still had large families so they’d allocated plenty of space.
The coffeepot gave its last gurgle. I poured a cup and raced back upstairs to find some clothes. I pulled on jeans, a sweater, and some hiking boots, and then glanced in the mirror. My dark hair was standing on end. When I brushed it, sparks crackled in the cold air, so I settled for a ponytail. I looked like a young girl, and I thought that might work in my favor. On the way out, I stuffed some hundred-dollar bills from Tinkie’s ransom into my pocket.
My first stop was the bakery, where I snagged a cheese Danish and more hot coffee. My second call was Cece. She was submerged in an avalanche of paper, and she accepted the treats with a tight smile. I extracted her promise not to blow my cover, before I told her about the small lie to the heir of Knob Hill.
As soon as the words Hamilton the Fifth were out of my mouth, I realized my own plight was not of the least interest to her. She pushed the papers onto the floor and began patting down her desk in an attempt to locate the telephone. She found it under another stack of papers and waved me out of her office, signaling that I was to close the door.
Well, I thought, walking out of the newspaper building, it served Hamilton the Fifth right that I’d tattled on him. If he hadn’t been such a rude bastard, I would have kept my mouth shut. Now, between Millie and Cece, he would be too busy to worry about me.
I decided that Delo Wiley, discoverer of Hamilton the Fourth’s corpse, would be my next stop. The way I figured it, the men involved in covering up the murder of Guy Garrett, if there was a murder, all knew each other. The man who appeared to have the least power was Delo, a hardscrabble farmer who leased his cornfields to the dove hunters once he’d harvested his crop. Delo wasn’t one of the dove-hunting set. Neither was he an elected official, which was another of the male cliques in Zinnia. He was sort of an outsider, and the most likely to talk, in my evaluation.
He lived to the east of town, and I cruised along the blacktop watching the sun burn away the frost. It was a beautiful day with a deep blue sky and golden light. Delo’s house was not far from town. His driveway cut through fields of corn stubble, and when I parked and got out, I heard the sound of an ax. He was in his backyard in a stand of cedars, splitting oak logs.
“Morning, Mr. Wiley,” I said as I approached, dodging three holes that looked freshly dug.
He swung the ax into the tree stump he was using as a block, and wiped his forehead on his shirtsleeve.
He was an old man. I hadn’t expected this. I’d seen him around town and I remembered him as always busy. But the last time I’d seen him, his hair had been salt-and-pepper and his eyes a clear, no-nonsense brown. Today he was stooped, and his plaid jacket hung on his shoulders. Thick glasses magnified his eyes and made them seem weak. His brown gaze moved up and down me and then dropped to the ground, traveling to the pile of wood that remained to be split.
“What can I do for you, Sarah Booth?” He kept looking at the woodpile.
I was surprised that he knew me, though I shouldn’t have been. “I’m writing a book,” I said. “A novel. So it’s fiction, but I got to thinking back about things that had happened in Sunflower County, and I remembered there was one real interesting story.” I waited for him to take the bait.
“Lots of interesting stories around these parts,” he said, bending to reach for a log. No bite on my line. I was not deterred.
“I know the whole Hamilton Garrett shooting was an accident, but I was thinking it would make a great book if I made it out to be a murder. You know, fictionalized the events using different names and setting it somewhere other than Sunflower County. Maybe a made-up county like Yoknapatawpha.” He gave me a bland look.
“Folks always like to read about murder,” he said.
Delo was going to be difficult. He was one of the COR’s, Cagey Old Rednecks. Verbal effusiveness would never be on
e of his sins.
“You were the one who found Mr. Hamilton the Fourth when he was accidentally shot, right?”
“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know that answer.”
“Books need realistic detail. I thought I’d get some of the facts from you.”
Delo twisted the ax free from the stump. He hefted it high and brought it down on a log. He had surprising strength for a man who looked so old. The log split, and one half of it flew directly at me. I sidestepped just in time, or it would have damaged my knee.
“Sorry about that,” he said in a tone that clearly said he wasn’t. He bent for another log to split. “Seems to me if you’re writing fiction you could just make the whole thing up. What do you care about the facts?”
I had thought of this. “I don’t want to accidentally make it sound too much like what really happened and wind up getting sued. That woman who writes about Kay Scarpetta. She got sued by a family who said she put their tragedy in one of her novels.” My smile was tight as I recalled Jitty’s hell-raising about the issues of The National Enquirer I brought home from The Pig. Trash they might be, but they’d paid off. I had the low-down on every celebrity at my fingertips.
Delo brought the ax down on another stump and kindling flew. “It’s been my experience with life that few mistakes are innocent.”
Now that was a conversation stopper. I picked up the piece of kindling and chunked it onto the pile. Just to let him know I wasn’t going to be run off easily, I took a seat on one of the bigger logs. “See, the way I’ve got it pictured in my head was Mr. Garrett the Fourth had on one of those camouflage vests with all the pockets loaded down with shells. It was a crisp evening, one of those sunsets too pretty to believe. Mr. Garrett was waiting for that last clutch of doves to fly up into that beautiful sky, but he was tired, so he kind of knelt down, and then, unexpectedly, he stood. The other hunters hadn’t seen him because he was kneeling, and when he stood he caught the shot in his throat. Is that about right?”
Delo had stopped chopping wood. He was leaning on the ax handle looking at me, and his eyes didn’t look weak any longer.
“What is it you really want?” he asked.
“The truth,” I said slowly.
“How old are you, Sarah Booth?”
I didn’t see where that was any of his concern, but I also didn’t see where it would hurt to answer. “Thirty-three.”
“Long past the prime age to get a man.”
His words were unexpected. They were not wounding, but unsettling. But then I should have anticipated that if I pressed him on his turf, he’d take the fight to mine. Psychology 211.
I decided to up the ante. “If a man was what I wanted, I’d have one. I want something more.” I gave the pause three beats. “I want fame, Mr. Wiley. Fame and enough money so that I’ll never have to worry again.”
Something sparked in his eyes, and I knew we’d finally found our common language.
“It could be dangerous to dig too deeply into the past,” he said carefully. “And expensive.”
This was a new snag. He was asking for money, but I didn’t know how much to offer. Usually, folks around Zinnia were more than willing to talk about somebody else’s business for the sheer pleasure of it. Naturally, he would have to be different. But how much to offer?
My first thought was one hundred, but I pulled two bills out of my pocket and folded them down the middle into a long trough. I tapped them against my knee. “How was Hamilton the Fourth shot?” I asked.
He took the money, tucking it into his shirt pocket. “Looked to me like he was sittin’ on the ground. Lots of possibilities there. It’s not a good idea to put inexperienced people out in a field with guns. Anyway, I heard the official sheriff’s report ruled it an accident.”
“Tell me about that day,” I said, hoping his story would clue me in as to other questions to ask.
“It was Isaac Carter who set up the hunt. He called and wanted the Mule Bog field, which is down in the lower acreage and borders the river. It’s the best hunting land because there’s a lot of natural growth there, but the ground is boggy. It’s hard walking.”
“How many men?”
He thought a minute. “Maybe eight. It was Carter, Camden Wells, Lyle Bedford, Asa Grant, Myles Lee, Hamilton the Fourth, and a couple of men I didn’t know. Investors from out of state, according to Carter.”
Delo had just listed the top players for the Buddy Club. They were the movers and shakers of the Delta, the men who controlled the money and who had married the Daddy’s Girls of my mother’s generation. They were blooded, the inheritors of the earth and all of its bounty. Unlike Harold, who had acquired wealth by his wits and hard work, the Buddy Clubbers were born to it.
It made sense that they were all out together blasting the symbol of peace into tufts of feathers. They were powerful men, and they never tired of showing it by their possessions, their ability to ignore the rules, and their easy laughter.
“I was surprised when Mr. Garrett showed up,” Delo continued. Now that the money had loosened his tongue, I didn’t have to prod at all. “He’d never hunted with them before. And he didn’t look too happy that day.” His jaw shifted to the right. “Here’s a fact for you. His gun had been fired once. It was right beside him in the field.”
“Was it the gun that killed him?”
“No one ever said for sure.”
I turned back to the day of the hunt. “The men got there in the morning?”
“It was after lunch. I offered to set them up, but Carter said he knew the field. So they went off together and I stayed up here to tend to my business. I had several other groups in different fields.” Before I could ask, he answered. “None close enough to see what happened. And let me say that no matter what Fel Harper or his official coroner’s report tell you, Mr. Garrett had been dead awhile before I found him.”
“Did anyone call a doctor?”
“What for? He was dead.”
One good reason would be that in Mississippi, coroners are elected and can be as dumb as dirt. Fel Harper had never won any IQ contests. Trusting him on the time of death would be asinine, or possibly a deliberate attempt to hide the truth.
“So the other men came in …”
“It was getting dark, and I was about to get in the four-wheeler and go round them up when they came in the yard. None of them seemed to have noticed that Mr. Garrett wasn’t with them. When I pointed out he was missing, they all shrugged and said they thought he’d come back a long time ago. So I got in the four-wheeler and went out to find him. I called for a while, and when he didn’t answer, I began to think that something bad had happened. Sure enough, I was cutting around a stump that had a lot of scrub growth around it and there he was. He was lying on his side, sort of. It was a mess.”
“What happened then?”
“I rode back to the house and told the others. Then I called the sheriff and the coroner.”
“How did the men react?”
“Carter volunteered to go and tell Mr. Garrett’s wife, and they decided that’s what should be done. The rest just milled around until the sheriff came, and then they all went back out to the field in the hearse.”
“Did you go?”
Delo’s dark eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t asked, and I didn’t volunteer. It looked to me like a bad day’s work had been done. The smartest thing for me was to feed my dogs, collect the money from the other hunters, and stay put at the house.”
“You did tell the sheriff, though?”
“Pasco Walters didn’t ask me a single question, and I didn’t volunteer any information.” He picked up his ax. “One thing a girl like you never had to learn was that you don’t offer suggestions to your betters.” His voice had grown angry. “Now move on. You’ve gotten everything you paid for.”
“If you have any other thoughts on this, I’d like to hear them,” I said, standing up.
“I’ll give you some advice, Sarah Booth. You ask the wrong que
stion of the right person, and you might find more trouble than you ever dreamed possible.”
Fel Harper was a big man and a popular one. Along with pronouncing all the dead folks dead, he fried catfish and grilled steaks for various parties and functions. For as long as I could remember, a political rally wasn’t much to speak of unless Fel had his portable cook station there and was serving up the grub. He was a gregarious man who seemed to defy his elected capacity as coroner. For all of his six-foot-five frame and three-hundred-plus weight, he moved quickly as he pulled out a chair for me in the small office at the stockyards, where he worked a day job.
“Sarah Booth Delaney,” he said, putting big hands on my shoulders and holding me at arm’s length while he took my measure. “I remember the day you and Roger Crane snuck off from school and rode your bicycles to Leatherberry Creek. Whewee! Your folks were torn up. They thought you’d been kidnapped, or somethin’ worse.” He laughed loudly.
This wasn’t a good memory for me. I had been twelve, and Roger Crane had been three years older. He’d persuaded me to skip school and go swimming with him. It was my first lesson in deception, his, mine, and ours.
I focused on Fel’s face. Even though he had to be sixty, his cheeks were smooth as a baby’s butt. There wasn’t a wrinkle or a sign of beard stubble, and I wondered if somewhere he’d had chemotherapy, because his head was bald and shiny as Mr. Clean’s.
“You need me to cook for some ‘do’ you’re planning up at Dahlia House?” he asked as he pressed me down into a chair. “Miz Kincaid has me booked for her charity function. She’s doin’ up her house in hay bales and gingham to make it look like the country. That’s the theme. Fried catfish is the menu, to highlight the fact that Mississippi is the number-one producer of catfish in the nation. You know Miz Kincaid always likes to point out the good things about our great state. She’s a charmin’ little thing, isn’t she?”
Them Bones Page 9