“I love dusk,” Harold said. “The soil seems to absorb the sun’s light. The day is over; the night begins.”
“I love it, too, but it’s a sad time for me.” I couldn’t say exactly why, but the day’s ending brought the past closer. As light slipped from the sky, memories took on the texture of reality. Many of my remembrances were sad, moments lost in time. “I prefer sunrise. New potential.”
“When the night is burned away by the golden orb. You’ve had enough shadows in your life, Sarah Booth. You deserve to bask in the sun.” Harold patted my shoulder. “You’re a good friend. We don’t tell you often enough.”
“As are you. I’m blessed with good friends.” I pressed gently on the gas and put the car in motion. “Gertrude will be angry about the dogs.”
“Gertrude is angry at you no matter what you do. Want me to ask her why she has such a burn-on for you?”
I laughed as we found a parking spot. “Nope.” I turned to the backseat. “Sweetie, Roscoe, stay in the car.” Sweetie sometimes obeyed, but I had no expectations for Roscoe except trouble.
“There’s Cece’s car,” Harold said. “And the ancient Jaguar Jeremiah inherited from the Falcon estate. He probably drives it twelve miles a week. What a sad and lonely creature he is. I’ve often wondered why he never married. He’s not bad-looking. When he was younger, he was quite the local heartthrob.”
“It’s hard for me to remember anything except how awful he was to Cece. Speaking of which, let’s find them before Cece gets arrested.”
We hurried down the flower-lined pathway just as the solar lights came on. I thought of Peter Pan and Wendy when Harold grabbed my hand. We ran like children rushing to recess.
Gertrude was not at her normal sentinel post at the front desk. Harold and I giggled as we slipped down the hallway to the bar. When we were fifty yards away, I heard the harbinger of war to come.
“You’re a stupid bastard without an ethical bone in your body,” Cece yelled.
I could make a good guess whom she was talking to.
“And you’re a freak of nature,” Jeremiah tossed back.
“Oh, shit,” I whispered. No time for fancy curse phrases now.
Harold doubled down on speed, and I was hot on his heels. He hurled himself through the bar’s doorway and threw a punch so perfectly devastating, Jeremiah was lifted off his feet. He fell back on a table and crashed it.
I patted his back. “Mike Tyson in disguise.” Cece stood beside me as stunned as I.
“I can brawl when it’s necessary.” Harold straightened his jacket. “A gentleman seldom finds himself in circumstances requiring fisticuffs. This time it couldn’t be avoided.”
“I’ll sue you for everything you’re worth.” Jeremiah sprawled on the debris of the table. “You rush to the defense of that he-she. You have a taste for trash.”
Harold drew back his foot, and Cece and I both rushed forward to step between him and Jeremiah.
I hadn’t seen Jeremiah in years, and his appearance was shocking. The classic Falcon good looks had eroded from anger and drink. Sure enough, he wore the same tired trademark seersucker suit. Stains littered the front of his jacket. His panama hat lay on the floor beside him. Even in the wreckage of what was left of him, I saw something that reminded me of Cecil’s older and very sophisticated brother. He let bigotry and ugliness eat him from the inside out.
“Get out of here,” Cece said.
“I have as much right to be here as you do. Maybe more, since I’m a genuine person.”
Harold cocked a fist, but I stepped up to Jeremiah’s ear and whispered, “If you say another hurtful word to my friend, I will figure out the thing that makes your life a living misery and then I’ll make certain it happens.”
“You can’t threaten me.” He straightened his spine. “No one threatens Jeremiah Falcon.” A trace of lord of the manor still clung to him.
“Yeah, leave him alone.” Buford Richmond, Tinkie’s cousin by marriage, pushed between us. When the fighting started, he’d ducked behind the bar. Buford, shorter and rounder, was a physical contrast to Jeremiah. The things they shared in common included lack of ambition, lack of love, and a lack of joy.
“Buford, if you say another stupid word, Oscar will shut down your allowance. You dishonor the Richmond name with this behavior.” Harold didn’t raise his voice. “Now, the two of you pack up and head for home. If either of you needs a driver, I’ll have someone take you home safely.”
I saw the movement of Buford’s hand as he brought a gun from his waistband just as Cece stepped in front of Harold. She meant to block the bullet with her own body.
Before anyone could do anything, Sweetie Pie came flying through the air in what would pass for a doggy-Olympic event. Her teeth clamped on Buford’s gun hand just as Roscoe sank his fangs into Buford’s calf. Buford hit the floor screaming. For good measure, Roscoe whipped around and bit Jeremiah on the inner thigh, dangerously close to his family jewels. His scream rivaled a banshee’s.
To my mortification, Cece and I burst into laughter. Harold picked up the gun Buford had dropped. Jeremiah tried to gain his feet, but Harold put a foot on his blood-soaked leg. The slightest pressure brought another howl. “Stay down. I think we need to call the sheriff.”
“Well, well, if it isn’t what Faulkner might describe as a good down-home family reunion.” Olive Twist stood in the doorway. She wore a dress Little Miss Muffet might wear for tuffet sitting. For a woman whose body would love the slinky look of couture fashion, Dr. Twist was hopeless in her choice of dowdy.
“The redoubtable Dr. Twist,” Harold swung the gun in her direction. That took the smug off her puss. She jumped behind Jimmy Boswell, using him as a human shield.
“Oh, forgive me.” Harold opened the clip to show it was unloaded and then put the gun away. “Harold Erkwell.” He extended his hand. “And this is Cece Dee Falcon, and I believe you’ve met Sarah Booth.”
“I know all of you.” She swept us with a scathing glance. “And the people on the floor? Relatives, I suspect. I’ve heard about the family shindigs you people find so endearing. They usually involve guns and incest.”
Sweetie’s hair bristled, and a low growl slipped from deep in her throat. “My dog doesn’t care for your ignorance,” I said.
Twist had sense enough to edge away from Sweetie. She was unprepared for Roscoe, though, who slipped behind her. She stumbled into him, and in a moment she was sitting on her butt in the middle of the floor.
“Dah-link, camo-platform shoes are so … tacky,” Cece said. “Those with such an obvious lack of grace might want to wear Crocs. Are your toes webbed by any chance? I see Olympic swimming in your future.”
Boswell helped Olive to her feet, and his thanks was a dirty scowl. “Have any of you seen Dr. Webber?” Olive asked. “He sent me a bouquet of lobelia. I wanted to let him know I’m not in the least intimidated.”
“Why would flowers intimidate you?” Flowers were normally signs of affection.
“If you had any education whatsoever, you’d know that flowers convey a message. Lobelia, also known as pukeweed or vomitwort, signifies malevolence. There are deeper meanings in everything, Ms. Delaney, but you have to educate and train your mind to think.”
“No one ever sent me a bouquet of pukeweed, Dr. Twist. I guess that’s part of an education I missed. My beaus send me roses, orchids, and sometimes birds-of-paradise. Those flowers mean they view me as exotic and like me.”
“You are such a simpleton,” Olive said. “No quality of mind whatsoever.”
“There’s an old saying down here in Mississippi,” Cece said. “Book smarts never made a woman attractive.”
I started to say that I’d never heard the expression before, but I asked something else instead. “Did anyone call Coleman?” I was ready to go. “He should come and pick up Jeremiah and Buford and lock them up until they sleep it off.”
“Don’t arrest them,” Cece said.
“I’ve got a
good mind to press charges against you, Harold,” Jeremiah said, but he was already easing toward the door, with a wonderful limp. “I’ll consider my options and talk with my lawyer. Your assault was unprovoked.”
“The fact you breathe is a provocation,” I told him. “Be careful what hornets’ nest you stir, Jeremiah.”
“You can’t scare us.” Buford swaggered to his friend’s side. He sneered at Olive. “We have resources you can’t conceive of. And you can’t use us for your research. The Lady in Red is a revered historic site. We’ve already started a petition to stop the exhumation.”
“What’s the Lady in Red to you?” Olive waited like a cat stalking a bird.
“She’s a Southern lady who met an unfortunate end. That’s all we need to know. We won’t have our womenfolk violated.” Buford’s chest swelled with pride. “We men defend our women. I don’t know how you do things where you’re from, but down here, womenfolk are treasured.”
“Buford, you are a moron.” I wanted to beat him with a stick. Talk about a stereotype. He should have just brought a Jeff Foxworthy joke book and started reading: You might be a redneck if … you think a woman is a delicate flower.
Harold glared at him. “Beat it, Buford. Oscar is going to stop your monthly check if you speak another word.”
Buford grabbed Jeremiah’s sleeve. “Let’s go. You can drop me by my house.”
“Understand, Dr. Twist, we won’t lie still for this. You will not besmirch the noble blood of our forefathers.” Jeremiah tried to wrap himself in the glory of the battered South. “We are a proud people. We won’t tolerate having our dead tampered with. You’ll pay a heavy price if you don’t heed our words. We are not people to be trifled with.”
He swept past Buford and marched out the door. Buford scooted after him.
“Charming relatives,” Olive said. “Enchantée!”
“Gag me with a spoon,” I responded. “Come on, Cece. Let’s head to Dahlia House for a drink.”
“I’ll be right along,” she said. She’d locked on Jimmy Boswell. Cece loved young, pretty men, and Boswell certainly qualified. “I need a word with Mr. Boswell.”
To my amusement, Boswell edged toward the door. “I have a prior engagement,” he said.
“That’s news to me.” Twist turned on him. “You’re on the clock for me. You have no other engagements. Only those I set up or approve. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Dr. Twist.” He cowered, but there had been a hint of anger before he tilted his head down. Twist might bully the young man, but he wasn’t the doormat he pretended to be. There was fire beneath the cool exterior.
“Harold?” I had Sweetie Pie by the collar, and Roscoe was sniffing at a potted plant with the clear intention of watering it. Any minute now Gertrude was going to show up at the bar. Of course everything would be my fault.
“Let me pay for the table.” Harold peeled money from his wallet. “It was worth every cent to knock Jeremiah on his ass. He’s needed it for the past twenty years. You know, a lot of us younger men once looked up to him.”
I linked my arm through Harold’s. Boswell had left the room and Cece was, discreetly, right behind him. Olive Twist might well lose her assistant if Cece had her way.
5
The morning sun slanted in through the kitchen window and mingled with the mouthwatering smell of fried bacon and coffee to create the perfect morning. Graf, wearing gym shorts and a wifebeater that showed off his muscled shoulders, stood at the stove flipping French toast while Tinkie and I sat at the table, fresh coffee steaming before us. She was unusually quiet, so much so that I nudged her.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s Oscar. When he came home yesterday evening, he was in a terrible mood.” She spoke softly. “I asked him where he’d been, and he said something about an appointment but wouldn’t give any details.”
That didn’t sound like the Oscar I knew. He didn’t keep secrets from Tinkie. They’d had a rough patch in their marriage a few years back, and they’d laid ground rules. One was total honesty. As far as I knew, they’d both abided by the rule. Until now.
“Where do you think he went?”
“I don’t have a clue.” She was puzzled more than hurt. “It had to be important, but why not tell me?”
“Maybe it’s a surprise. Like a fall trip to Europe.” Oscar planned surprise vacations sometimes.
Tinkie’s smile returned. “Thank you, Sarah Booth. I’ll bet you’re right.”
“Are you girls done with your whispering session and are you ready for breakfast?” Graf asked.
“Yes to both questions.” Tinkie’s tone was impertinent. “Serve us, master chef.”
Sweetie curled at my feet, one eye on Pluto, who wove figure eights around Graf’s legs. Pluto was not above sucking up for bacon. He was a conniving cat, and I’d fallen hard for him. If Marjorie Littlefield demanded I return him, I’d be in a world of hurt.
“Did you know Pluto’s last name was MacTavish?” I asked Tinkie. She’d talked to Marjorie as much as, if not more than, I had.
“Pluto MacTavish?” Tinkie slipped off her sandals.
“Marjorie insisted the cat is of Scottish descent. He even has a coat of arms.”
She rubbed Pluto’s head with her manicured toes. “How does one go about proving a cat’s geographic ancestry?”
“She sent a copy of the coat of arms to my cell phone. His family motto is ‘We Stalk and Thrive.’ Or that’s what Marjorie told me. The verse was in Latin, so I had no idea what it really said.”
“You two aren’t so gullible you believe the cat has a coat of arms?” Graf crumbled bacon on a paper towel for Pluto. “I wonder if they make kilts for cats?”
The most amusing image popped into my brain, and I sat back with a goofy smile.
“Where in the world has your mind gone?” Tinkie jabbed me with her elbow. “You’re a million miles away.”
“Scotland with a black cat wearing a kilt.”
“I worry about you, Sarah Booth.” Tinkie was serious.
“Do you know what’s under a kitty kilt?” Graf asked. “Fur balls!”
Tink and I both groaned and threw napkins at Graf.
“Don’t even try to explain.” Tinkie rolled her eyes. “Your mental function is a mystery they couldn’t map with a CAT scan.”
“My humor is unappreciated, but Pluto approves of my cooking.” The cat had eaten the bacon and was licking the paper towel. “How many pieces of French toast, Tinkie?”
“Two. And they do smell good, Graf. I think you’ve improved on Sarah Booth’s recipe, and I didn’t think that could be done. Is that nutmeg I detect?” Her complimentary tone shifted to a pout. “Oscar won’t even try to cook.”
“You don’t cook, either,” I pointed out. “And that’s a good thing.”
“Oscar makes wonderful pasta dishes; he simply won’t do it. I can’t cook. I’ve tried. Remember the dog treats?”
Even the mention of that fiasco made my stomach quiver. “Enough said.”
“You know, Graf looks like he should be in a black-and-white movie with Marilyn Monroe or Claudette Colbert. With that dark, tousled hair, the shadow of a beard, hummm. Romantic comedy might be a good move after this noir film the two of you are doing.”
Tinkie referred to Delta Blues, a tale about two private investigators. I’d agreed to play one of the PIs, and Graf the other. Filming was set to start in the Delta in November. “You’re right, Tink. He does.”
His dark hair hung over one eye and gave him a “devil may care” look as he spun the spatula in the air and caught it. His grin oozed charm. “Thank you, Tinkie. How many slices, Sarah Booth?”
“Two for her, too.” Tinkie winked at him. “No, better give Sarah Booth three, but only if she agrees to work them off doing the horizontal boogie.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Does Graf look deprived?”
“Graf looks rather fetching.” Tinkie couldn’t suppress her grin. “And I have to sa
y, he appears well bedded. There’s a certain … looseness in his posture.”
I had to change the subject. Tinkie was determined to tease me, and I was terribly vulnerable in front of my man. “Graf, are you coming to Lexington with us for Dr. Twist’s press conference?”
“I should look over the contracts my agent emailed, but I think I’ll ride along.” Graf served us each a heaping breakfast plate. “Will I be in the way?”
“Of course not.” I was thrilled he wanted to join us. We weren’t really on a case, more of a mission for Frances Malone. “It shouldn’t take long.”
The phone rang and I picked it up, wondering what Coleman was calling about.
“Sarah Booth, I think you should hurry over to The Gardens.”
“What on earth for?” That was the last place I wanted to go.
“Jimmy Boswell is dead, likely murdered.”
My fingers tightened on the phone. “What happened?” I asked.
“My best guess is poison. Doc will know more after the autopsy.”
“Do you have a suspect?”
“I have half a dozen. That’s the problem.”
“Why would anyone want to poison Jimmy Boswell? He was harmless.”
“Maybe not. It’s complicated, but Oscar’s cousin and Cece’s brother are both suspects, as well as Dr. Twist. And Dr. Webber. By the way, Olive Twist is asking for you.”
“You have got to be kidding.”
“Afraid not. She wants to hire you. I told her I would pass the message along.”
I looked down at my mountain of French toast. The morning had been going so pleasantly. “I’m not sure I want to be hired.” Both Tinkie and Graf gave me their full attention. “Any leads on the bombing yesterday?”
“DeWayne made a cast of the prints outside the gallery. We found a pair of shoes that fit.”
“Where were the shoes?”
“In the ditch in front of Jeremiah Falcon’s driveway.”
“Not good.” But another thought occurred to me. “If he was the bomber, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to throw the shoes at his own driveway.”
Smarty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Page 7