Smarty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery

by Haines, Carolyn

  “Jealous, some?” Jitty asked. “Betty Boop was the sex symbol for generations of men.”

  “That is too sad to even contemplate.” I took a long look at her. “Your head is huge.”

  “And so are my boobs,” she countered. “And my waist is tiny. Men love me.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. You’re talking about men suffering from retarded adolescence.” I went to the closet and dragged out ironed jeans and a purple shirt.

  I heard the tapping of the cane and her high heels as she came closer to me.

  “What do you want, Jitty? It has to be something spectacular if you’re wearing that getup.”

  “Just giving you a preview of what’s coming your way like a freight train. Better eat your spinach.”

  “Spinach?” I turned to confront her, but in typical Jitty fashion, she was gone. In her wake, though, a burst of tiny red hearts floated around the spot where she’d stood. In an instant, they vanished.

  * * *

  The long, tree-lined drive to The Gardens brought back memories. Bad ones. I didn’t relish asking Gertrude Strom where to find Dr. Twist, but I had no choice. Gertrude ran the front desk like a barracuda guarding a sushi buffet. She would make life as tough as possible for me. The only person Gertrude was consistently nice to was my partner, Tinkie. Zinnia National Bank held the mortgage on The Gardens, and Tinkie’s husband, Oscar, was president of the bank. Her father owned it. Money might not buy happiness, but it sure as heck could purchase obsequiousness.

  Whatever my personal feelings for Gertrude, I had to hand it to her. The grounds were incredible. Mums in every shade from purple to russet to gold brightened the flowerbeds, where fuchsia-veined caladiums offered pinks and lime greens. Closer to the building, I was smitten by the riot of spider lilies, their coral petals dancing on a gentle breeze.

  “What are you doing on my property?” Gertrude popped up from behind a hedge like one of those horrible jack-in-the-boxes. Even as a child I’d hated those things.

  I’d hoped to at least get in the door before she launched an assault, but fate was against me. She wasn’t a tall woman, but she was cantankerous as a snake with its tail in a mousetrap. “Gertrude, fancy seeing you here. Where can I find Dr. Olive Twist?”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything. In fact, I can call the sheriff and have you arrested for trespassing. Now that you’re no longer sleeping with Sheriff Peters, maybe he’ll cuff you and haul you off to jail.”

  Gertrude’s red hair, dyed to a shade between fire engine and Bozo the clown, caught the sunlight like copper wires. Bride of Frankenstein might be a phrase used to describe her.

  “Gertrude, I’m well within my rights to visit a guest.”

  “We’ll see about that. Maybe Dr. Twist doesn’t want to see you.”

  “If she doesn’t, I’ll leave. But I intend to ask her.” I started past Gertrude, only to be stopped by a garden rake thrown like a spear. She missed my foot by about an inch.

  “Don’t take another step. You’re not so special you can make yourself at home here.” Gertrude came out of the flowerbed, dusted her gloves, and maneuvered her body between me and the front door. “Wait here. I’ll ring Dr. Twist and see if she’ll speak with you. Of course I’ll warn her what a busybody little snooper you are and how ineffectual your detective agency is.”

  I sighed and took a seat on a bench. It was still ninety-two in the shade, but it was better than standing in the sun. Also better than arguing with Gertrude. She could waste endless amounts of my time, and I wanted to talk to the professor and then get home to stir up some fried chicken, field peas with okra, and cracklin’ cornbread for Graf. Fattening up a man was one of life’s little joys. Soon enough he’d be in Hollywood with his trainer, but for the moment we were tossing dietary concerns to the wind.

  Speaking of trainers, I made a discreet grab at the flab accumulating around my middle. Since finishing my last case, during which a vile butler had tried to starve me, I’d shoved my face in the trough and lived life large. Graf was an excellent cook. And Dahlia House’s kitchen was made for two to share. We worked well together, and we enjoyed trying new recipes, all of them saturated with calories. Soon, though, the excess would stop and the suffering would begin. Graf would be gone and I’d have to address the wages of gluttony.

  “Ms. Delaney?”

  Startled from my food fantasy, I swung around to face the skinniest woman I’d ever seen. She wore a long blue pencil skirt and a white blouse ruffled around the neck and sleeves. She was a vision of a 1980s secretary or bank teller. Except for her feet, which were encased in the ugliest brogans ever cobbled. They were boats. A small village could have floated on them. A size fifteen, at the very least.

  “Are you Ms. Delaney?” Her voice had an irritating twang whose origins I couldn’t place. She wasn’t British or Canadian or even Northeastern, and she sure as heck wasn’t from my neck of the woods. Jitty’s warning came back to haunt me—indeed, I should have eaten some spinach because I was staring at Olive Oyl. The stick-thin, shapeless body, the blue-black hair clasped at her neck with a scrunchie, the huge feet. Popeye’s girlfriend, in the flesh. Except this Olive had the visage of an angel.

  “Can you hear me?” She leaned down into my face and spoke slowly. “I know you people are slow.”

  “You people?” I bristled. “What do you mean, you people?”

  Her answer was a strange movement of her lips that could have been a smile, or possibly a gas bubble.

  “Gertrude said you wanted to speak to me. She also told me you’re a Nosy Parker.” Dr. Twist sprawled beside me on the bench. “She failed to tell me you were mentally challenged.”

  I ignored the jab and forced my gaze away from her clodhoppers. She could water-ski with those feet. She could use her feet for Ping-Pong paddles, and something about the way she flounced on the bench told me she was probably limber enough to actually do it.

  “I’d like to ask a few questions about your research.” It was the least offensive opening I could come up with.

  “My, how gossip flies around a small Southern town. Do you people communicate by telephone?” She looked around as if searching for physical evidence of communication devices. “Do you actually have phone service here? I was surprised to find flush toilets.”

  Gertrude had undoubtedly given Dr. Twist a negative impression of me, but the professor had arrived in Zinnia with a stereotype of the area already embedded in her brainpan. I was tempted to yuk it up with some hambone slang, maybe a few one-liners about how all the DNA in town was similar, but I didn’t. Feeding the prejudice would only make matters worse.

  “Let me treat you to a drink,” I offered as I stood up. While we were the same height, I had her by forty pounds. If she took those ass-ugly shoes off, maybe fifty. I’d really never seen anything quite like them. They were stacks on a platform of glittery black plastic. Open-toed lace-ups, they appeared to be leather painted in a camouflage pattern. With a cuff of gray faux fur. Why would any sane person want to call attention to a foot that size?

  “A drink would be lovely,” she said.

  A serving or two of free booze might oil the hinges of Olive’s jaws. Patience was a virtue, and one I didn’t come by naturally. Still, I played it cool and got us settled at a small table in a corner of the bar.

  Even though I didn’t care for Gertrude, I loved The Gardens’ bar. It was all dark paneling, but there were plenty of windows. The parquet floor was polished to a shine, and plants hung in baskets and sprouted from planters. The ambience was wealth mingled with a green thumb. Gertrude knew her clientele. And one of her guests, a distinguished-looking fellow with salt-and-pepper hair and a small, Clark Gable mustache, seemed very interested in either me or Dr. Twist. He pretended to read a newspaper, but he watched us.

  With a Long Island iccd tea in front of her and a Bloody Mary at my fingertips, I started out casually. “I’m fascinated by history, and I heard you were here to do local research.”

/>   She nodded. “If my theories are correct, I’ll publish a monograph that’ll impact American history from the Civil War period. And that’s just the beginning. I have a rip-roaring tale that will translate into bestsellerdom.” She stood up abruptly. “Would you mind changing places with me?”

  “What?”

  “The light is better where you’re sitting. So my assistant can film.” She pushed me out of my chair and scooched into it with a provocative wiggle. “We’re documenting every step of this journey. This could be as significant as the first walk on the moon, or Admiral Peary’s trip to the North Pole.”

  “Wasn’t that claim challenged?”

  Olive grinned, and I swear I saw wicked canines. “You’re not as stupid as you look.”

  “I’m not the one who thinks every move I make is noteworthy.” I glimpsed a young cameraman behind a potted plant. He held an expensive piece of equipment trained on the preening historian.

  “I’ll put this hick town on the map.” Olive leaned back in the chair. “Whether you people like it or not.”

  If she said “you people” one more time I might deck her. “Most folks don’t find Mississippi’s history all that fascinating, unless you’re writing about the Civil War or civil rights. You’ve come a long way to work on a tired, overdone project.”

  “I have,” she agreed. “No one told me it was so hot here.” She wiped perspiration droplets from her forehead. “I’ve never been anywhere so intolerably hot. Is it the heat that makes you Southerners so slow? Honestly, I think if I stayed here six months my brain would turn to goop, too.”

  I smiled. “Tell me a little about yourself.” Some folks loved to talk about their favorite subject—themselves. I suspected Dr. Twist was one of them.

  “What’s the big interest in me?” she asked. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who gives a flip about academics or the pursuit of knowledge. Do you even read?”

  It was hard, but I ignored the insult. “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m a big fan of facts. Facts are my stock-in-trade.” I sipped my drink, amazed that her glass was drained. She might not weigh a hundred pounds, but she sure could Hoover down a drink. “Lay some knowledge on me.” Yeah, I couldn’t help myself from goading her just a little.

  “Maybe you’ve got a personal interest in what I’m doing.” She tapped her straw against her glass and assessed me. “Booth is a rather interesting name in a small Southern town. Booth. Ring any historical bells for you? A would-be actor, a theater, a gun.” She chuckled. “I hadn’t counted on such good luck on my first day here.”

  This wasn’t going to be easy. Whatever else Dr. Twist might be, she was nobody’s angel—and nobody’s fool. “Are you referring to John Wilkes? No relation to my family, I assure you.”

  “DNA tells out. Have any family branches from Maryland?”

  I refused to rise to the bait. “I’m trying to figure out what your interest in Zinnia is. Why don’t you just spare us both a lot of hemming and hawing and tell me why you’re here.”

  She signaled the barkeep for another drink. “Research.”

  “Could you be more specific? It’s possible my friends could assist if your project is interesting.”

  “I don’t think you or your friends will help me. No, not at all.” She took the drink the bartender brought and sucked down half of it. “I don’t think you’ll approve of my … research.”

  “History’s history. It’s either fact or not. It’s not up to me to approve or disapprove.”

  “Very enlightened attitude, but you’re not a convincing liar. I know your type. Defend the family honor no matter the truth. It’s been said that in the South, blood is always thicker than water. In some instances, I’ve been told, blood carries more weight than money. Is that true, Ms. Delaney?”

  She didn’t really know me at all, but she’d locked in on a partial truth. I was extremely defensive about my family’s honor, and also my friends. Money came in a distant second to honor in my book. “So what are you researching?”

  “I don’t have to tell you a damn thing about my work here. Or your friends. I doubt any of you could understand what I’m doing. And if you did understand, you wouldn’t approve of it. Besides, I have Boswell. He provides every service I need.”

  My brain flipped through a mental Rolodex and came up empty. “Boswell? From Charlie’s Angels?”

  “That’s Bosley, you…” She stopped herself. “Boswell is my assistant. The one with the camera.” She waved at him. “I’ve promised him a credit and a tiny percentage of the royalties on my book if he works hard. There’ll be plenty of glory to share, and Boswell is all I need. He works tirelessly, and he’s very good at what he does. He loves to please me.”

  She’d managed to dodge the question of her research as well as my insincere offers of assistance. What she needed was a good dose of Aunt Loulane’s wisdom—she sure could catch a lot more flies with sugar than with vinegar. I wondered what had made her such a sour person.

  “I guess polite questions won’t work for you. Let’s get down to the nit-picking.” I was pretty certain that colorful phrase would please her, because I was sure she believed everyone in Zinnia had nits. “Are you researching the genealogy of the Richmond and Falcon families?”

  “What if I am?”

  Saint Peter with rigor mortis, she was an aggravating varmint. I signaled the barkeep for another round for her. She drank like she had a hollow leg. I’d run up a bar tab and gotten nothing in return. “Both the Richmond and Falcon family are personal friends. Slander or, worse, libel is not a good idea.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Pope Paul at a clambake! I don’t know what you’re up to and I don’t care, but if you’ve come here to make trouble for my friends, it won’t end pretty.” Dang, that was a Freudian slip. Dr. Twist could have been a real beauty, if she had better taste in clothes and a foot transplant.

  “Threats don’t scare me. Your friends’ ancestors were involved in some low-down, dirty business that resulted in the assassination of one of the greatest men to ever lead this country.”

  “JFK? No one in Zinnia had anything to do with that.”

  “Not Kennedy. Lincoln.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” She really was a fruitcake.

  “I have evidence, and as soon as I get the order to disinter the Lady in Red, I’ll have proof beyond a shadow of a doubt. Her DNA will match either Oscar Richmond or Benjamin Falcon. She is the mastermind who plotted the murder of Abraham Lincoln. Mary Surratt was falsely accused and executed. It should have been the woman in that grave, Tilda Richmond or Tilda Falcon, who swung from the gallows.”

  The ghoulish scene she evoked made me blink. “You don’t know which family?”

  “There’s a connection between the families I haven’t figured out. But I will. Once I’m on a scent I’m better than a bloodhound.”

  Color me flabbergasted. I opened and closed my mouth like a guppy, unable to form words. Her accusations and leaps of logic were so astounding, no sane person would give them credence. She’d taken a local mystery and embroidered it into a tablecloth for a banquet of crazy lies.

  The Lady in Red, an unidentified female, was accidentally disinterred on Egypt Plantation in Cruger, Mississippi, in 1969. The details of the incident were well known, at least in the Delta. Few folks outside the region knew—or cared—anything about a mysterious grave.

  A backhoe operator unearthed the sealed coffin of a beautiful lady wearing a red gown and gloves. The glass-topped coffin had been filled with alcohol and sealed so that the body inside was perfectly preserved. No one identified the body. No one claimed her. She was reburied at a local cemetery, and the plantation owner erected a monument inscribed: Lady in Red, Found on Egypt Plantation, 1835–1969. Her birth date was presumed, based on her clothes and age. The year 1969 was when she was accidentally dug up and reburied. No real facts were known.

  The grave was a
local attraction for teens and tourists for years—for those who could find it.

  “No one knows who’s in that grave,” I said. “If she’d been a Richmond or a Falcon, trust me, her family would have claimed her.”

  “Would they?” She gulped down the last of her drink. When she tried to signal for the barkeep, I grabbed her wrist. I’d had enough.

  “Where did you come up with this cockamamie idea?” I asked.

  “You’ll have to read my book to get those answers, but I’ll give you a hint. Lincoln had one cabinet member, Edwin Stanton, who loathed traitors, and he viewed all Southern sympathizers as such. He kept tabs on a woman who fits the description of your Lady in Red. I have some of his private letters, which are enlightening on the subject of Lincoln’s seduction and betrayal.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Is it?” A smile lifted her features from haughty to beautiful.

  “After all this time, new evidence is suddenly discovered? Sounds to me like you’re desperate for something sensational.”

  Olive’s expression shifted to consternation, and I glanced behind me. A very handsome young man had walked up. Light brown curls topped his six-three frame, and clear gray eyes met me head-on. He held an expensive digital camera in his hand. He nodded a hello. “Jimmy, this is a private detective sent to scare us out of town. Does she frighten you?”

  He laughed. “Dr. Twist, it’s time for your massage.”

  “Thank you, Boswell. I’ll be right there. Go and heat the rocks. I’ve had enough tension for the day.”

  “I’ll be ready for you in fifteen minutes.” He nodded good-bye before he left.

  “That’s your assistant?” It was my first good look at him sans the vegetation. He looked more like a boy toy.

  “Boswell has a bright future, as long as he does what I tell him.”

  “No doubt.” Anyone who bucked Dr. Twist would suffer. “But I can tell you the woman in that grave has no relationship to Sunflower County families. It would behoove you to stop that kind of gossip. Oscar won’t tolerate it, and if Tinkie hears any of it, she’ll take you to court.”