6
When I returned to Dahlia House, Graf was out jogging. I knew his route so I saddled up Reveler and Lucifer. Miss Scrapiron, the lady of my herd, could have the day off. With Sweetie at my side, I took off along the trail Graf had taken. I rode Reveler and ponied Lucifer. Lucky for me the two geldings had bonded.
The heat was almost intolerable, so I walked the horses. My favorite ride took me around the edges of the cotton fields and along the banks of a small creek, shaded by scrub oaks, cypress, and willows. Coker Creek, named for Jitty’s husband, wound through the property of Dahlia House and then back into acres and acres of cotton and corn.
Delta farmers long ago learned the value of windbreaks, and so the trees along creeks and waterways were spared from the ax. A good thing for me and the horses on a scorching day.
As we ambled along, I noted evidence of Graf’s passing. His footprints were sporadically embedded in the creek bank or in a damp spot beneath the overhanging tree limbs.
My heart was troubled by the web that Twist had thrown over my friends. While I didn’t believe Oscar had done anything wrong, I was worried that he’d shut Tinkie out. I knew from experience such behavior could destroy even the best relationship.
I arrived at a straight stretch and put Reveler into a gentle, ground-covering canter. Ten minutes later, I spotted the familiar figure of my man jogging. He must have heard the pounding of horse hooves and stopped, hands on his thighs, to catch his breath.
“Why, Sarah Booth Delaney, you are a sight sent by the angels,” he said when I drew abreast. He took Lucifer’s reins. “Thank goodness you brought me someone to ride home. This heat is a killer. The climate in California is far more hospitable.”
“Live long enough and we’ll have California’s climate right here in Sunflower County, thanks to global warming. If we aren’t underwater.” I tossed him a pair of sweatpants. Riding in gym shorts was not a great idea for man or woman.
“Thanks!” He slipped into them and mounted Lucifer and I passed him the bottled water I’d packed. “You are a goddess. Anything new to report on the case?”
“Nothing solid.”
We eased the horses into a walk and made for the nearest shade. “Why would anyone kill Boswell?” Graf asked. “Did he even have a life? I mean, he slept on the floor beside Twist’s bed.”
“I’m beginning to suspect there was more to Boswell than the shadow servant he presented to everyone.” Webber had painted a different picture of the assistant. There was also the note to Oscar indicating Boswell would sell out Olive to the highest bidder.
“What happened in Lexington?”
“The exhumation was stalled, but there was an angry crowd. Buford and Jeremiah were arrested for hitting Olive with rotten tomatoes. I’d expect that conduct from Buford, but Jeremiah was also so … classy. I mean, he’s an ass because of the way he treated Cece, but he was dignified. I guess Aunt Loulane would say, ‘If you lay down with dogs, you get up with fleas.’”
His laughter rang over the fields. I realized with a catch in my heart how much I loved him. He was born to be a movie star, and it scared me. At one time I’d wished nothing more than to be successful as an actor. Life had changed me and my ambitions. Coming home in desperation after my failed Broadway career, I’d learned Dorothy’s lesson. There’s no place like home. Could I reasonably expect Graf to be happy with a woman who lived in Mississippi while he traveled the world making films? I knew only too well how many women would devote themselves totally to fulfilling his every whim or desire.
“You’re too serious for your own good,” Graf said.
“Just thinking about the case.” I would not burden him with my own insecurities. “How did your business talks go?”
“They’ve offered me the voice-over job. I need to leave soon for Hollywood. I’ll be there a week and can come back after I finish. I can stay in Mississippi a while before the next shoot starts.”
I forced a wide smile. “I’m thrilled for you. And you are the perfect person. Kudos to the studio for seeing your talent.”
“I wish you could come with me.” He wasn’t pressuring me, just expressing his wishes.
“Let’s see what tomorrow brings. This whole case may have blown over by then.”
“Wishful thinking, Sarah Booth. But I thank you for the thought. And I accept your work is as important to you as my acting is to me. We’ll navigate around our schedules. Plenty of people do it, and they don’t love each other half as much as we do.” A devilish glint gave me warning. “How about a trot?”
“I think the horses would love a trot.”
Neck and neck, we made our way back around the cotton fields to the cool shade of the barn. We hosed the horses and put them in a pasture. They both rolled, aligning their backs in what passed for horsey chiropractic maneuvers. “I’ll make us a drink,” I said.
“Let me run a little oil over the tack and I’ll be right in,” Graf said.
I’d turned the corner to the house when Coleman pulled up to the front. His expression boded trouble. “Coleman’s here,” I called to Graf.
By the time Coleman got out of the patrol car and stood beside me at the steps, Graf had joined us.
“Sarah Booth, Graf,” the sheriff greeted us. “I just got Doc’s autopsy report. Boswell was definitely poisoned. We found the source—Olive’s gourmet coffee beans. The poison was mixed into the whole beans. When they were ground and used to brew the coffee—it was more than a lethal dose. We have a homicide on our hands and a dangerous killer on the loose.”
“Have you arrested anyone?” I asked.
“The evidence against Twist is circumstantial at best, but she did have motive. I understand Boswell was working behind her back, trying to sell her out to Webber and Oscar.”
I couldn’t deny that. Nor did I want to. “Olive’s mean as a snake. Why would she expect loyalty—the way she treated Boswell.”
“Speaking of Twist, she’s looking for you and Tinkie. I thought I’d give you a heads-up. I’m not certain I believe she did it, Sarah Booth. It’s possible she’s being set up, but she has it in her head that she needs her own investigators. Forces paid to serve her self-interest, as she put it.”
“If Twist isn’t the murderer, then she’s likely the intended victim,” I noted. “I find it a lot easier to believe she was the target, not Boswell.”
“I agree,” Graf said. “She’s the instigator. Boswell was just a bit player.”
“We found fingerprints on the coffee bag. Twist, Boswell, Gertrude, the cleaning staff, and unidentified prints that may belong to the stock boys at the specialty coffee-house. We’re checking on it. We’re also comparing the prints with Buford’s and Jeremiah’s, once Sheriff Peeples uploads and sends them over.”
“Are those two smart enough to use a poison?” I asked. “The way they’ve been behaving lately, I think they’re back to about second-grade intelligence.”
Coleman frowned. “Don’t underestimate them, Sarah Booth. Both men were brilliant in their day. And Buford has several degrees in finance. He knows how to make money if he wants to. I’m checking Boswell’s background. The tip you gave me has merit. Boswell had archived extensive footage of Twist that he’d surreptitiously taped. She comes across as a tyrant, bully, and complete ass. I don’t envy DeWayne the job of going through it, but that’s what he’s doing.”
Better Deputy Dattilo than me, I thought. “What about the Heritage Heroes or whoever they are?”
Coleman’s frown deepened. “A bunch of peckerhead haters is one thing. A bunch of haters with plush bank accounts is something else. From what I’m hearing, Buford and Jeremiah are revered by the group. I’ve gotten reports those guys are dedicated survivalists. They’ve kept a low profile in Sunflower County, but I’ve got my ear to the ground. There’s something here that disturbs me. I don’t like covert organizations, and especially those that cloak themselves in patriotism and the glory of the past. Sometimes that’s just a cover for raci
sm or misogyny or greed. They can be very dangerous, and my sources tell me these guys are armed.”
“I had the impression they were just a bunch of bigots strutting around, talking foolishness,” Graf said. “It’s frightening to think they actually have weapons and ammunition.”
“Most of these good ole boys want to blame someone for a bad economy or a wife who took a runner. They like to drink and shoot off their mouths. They kill animals that can’t shoot back, and they re-tell stories of the past when things were ‘good.’ Twist is messing with what they view as their sacred heritage. Some of them have serious brain deficits, and I worry they’ll do something rash. Now it looks like they’ve found leaders willing to show them the way. Jeremiah and Buford can create real problems. Particularly Jeremiah. He’s painted himself as a symbol of the fallen South. A man betrayed by his brother. Sort of the worst of the dead South. The Falcon inheritance was substantial. Big enough to cause serious problems.”
I saw his point. Money could buy a lot of trouble in the wrong hands. “This seems a little sophisticated for a bunch of yahoos.”
“Jeremiah went to Harvard. Buford has a doctorate. They aren’t stupid, but they’ve chosen a life of stupidity.”
“What about Richard Webber?” I was curious how Coleman read the Ole Miss professor.
“I don’t normally view academics as killers.” Coleman wiped sweat from his forehead. The heat was leeching the life out of us. “But the jealousy and ill-will between Webber and Twist is pretty epic. If he was sure he wouldn’t get caught killing her, he might be tempted to try.”
“Anyone else on your list of suspects?”
“Frances Malone was certainly upset. She made public threats.”
“She’s harmless and you know it. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“I still have to speak with her and check her alibi.”
I didn’t envy Coleman. For all her bluster, Frances was delicate. The idea she might be considered a murderer would send her into a hissy fit. “Be gentle. You know she isn’t capable of harming Boswell, or Twist.”
Coleman’s crooked smile told me he didn’t view Frances as a real suspect. But a good investigator followed every lead.
“Any news on the exhumation?”
Coleman’s amusement vanished. “Twist will eventually get the order. The identity of the woman in the grave is a mystery. If Twist is willing to pay for the exhumation and the necessary DNA tests to identify the dead woman, I’m willing to bet the judge will rule in Twist’s favor.”
“And no one can stop this?”
Coleman shook his head. “A family member, but there isn’t a proven one.”
“Digging up a body seems wrong,” Graf said. “I mean, rest in peace should mean something.”
I completely agreed, but I understood the law wasn’t our friend in this instance. “I’ll call Tinkie and we’ll talk with Twist. I honestly don’t want to work for her, Coleman.”
“Then don’t.” Coleman didn’t pull any punches. “This will divide Sunflower County and the Delta all the way down to Lexington. If I could steer clear of this rolling stink bomb, I would.”
“Sarah Booth’s curiosity has been stirred.” Graf rumpled my hair. “Might as well let her feed it. I suspect Dr. Twist will be headed north by the end of the week. Might be delicious for our little Southern flowers to fleece the carpetbagger.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.” Coleman touched the brim of his hat. “Let me know if Twist confesses. And a word to the wise: get your retainer up-front, Sarah Booth. Olive likes to live large.”
Graf and I watched him walk away. “Let’s get that Bloody Mary,” I said. “I need to be fortified to deal with Twist, and I have to talk with her.”
“I’ll expect a full report when you get back.”
“Come with me,” I suggested.
“Not just no, hell no.”
I didn’t blame him. Not even love could drag him down that long, rocky road.
* * *
Tinkie climbed into the front seat of the roadster. “I thought about this all afternoon. I don’t want to work for her.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then why are we going to The Gardens to talk with her? Send her an email or a text message. Tell her we don’t have time.”
I had to laugh. Not so long ago, Tinkie had read me the riot act about the horrors of breaking up with a man by text. I would have thought the same applied to a business deal. When I asked her, she gave me an exasperated expression signifying I was gaucher than a grub.
“Twist is not a lady, nor is she a friend. We’ve never been involved with her in any way. She’s a potential client, who has yet to pay our retainer. We can decline the job by text.” She swatted my shoulder. “Stop laughing at me. It’s rude.”
“If we’re not going to continue with her as our client, we owe it to her to tell her face-to-face.”
“Since when did you become a maven of good manners? Last I heard, you were threatening to send Graf’s ring back to him by FedEx.”
She had me there, but I still had a little mischief in me. “We’ll find her and you tell her we quit.”
“Did she really hire us? No money crossed my hand.”
I turned down the beautiful drive to The Gardens. “She agreed to our price. When we went to Lexington, it might be construed as working for her.”
“I was working for Frances Malone. She’s a lady with some class. And Twist is a … I don’t know what she is, but it isn’t a lady.”
“Point taken.”
Tinkie lowered her sunglasses and pierced me with a blue gaze. “Go dancing with Satan for the price of a song, Sarah Booth, and just see what happens.”
“Hang on!” I swerved the car as someone jumped out of the shrubs in front of us.
“Holy shit!” Tinkie slammed forward, but the seat belt caught her before her face hit the dash. “Who the hell was that?”
Behind us Gertrude Strom stood in the middle of the drive shaking a fist at me. Tinkie’s jaw jutted forward.
“Let me handle the old bat.” Tinkie unbuckled her seat belt and opened the car door. “I’ve about had it with her low-class conduct. I’ll set her straight.”
Because I really wanted to hear it, I turned off the car and followed Tinkie.
“Do you realize you almost made us wreck?” Tinkie hurled the words at Gertrude as she stormed toward her. “Even a cow has more sense than to walk in front of a moving car.”
“Not really,” I whispered to Tinkie. “Cows don’t comprehend vehicular right of way.”
“Shut it!” Tinkie whispered back. She zeroed in on Gertrude. “What is wrong with you?”
Gertrude put the back of her hand to her forehead. “Thank goodness you’re here. I need help.”
“What help? Maybe shoving little children into ovens?” Gertrude was not my favorite person and I saw no reason not to devil her.
“Twist and Webber are at each other’s throats. They’ve hurled insults to the point they’ve declared a duel! I overheard them in the hydrangea garden. They’re set to fight it out at high noon.”
“There’s still time to find a good seat,” I said, consulting my watch. “Is it to be swords or pistols?” I had no real concern that the two academics would physically harm each other.
“I won’t have blood shed on my hydrangeas! High iron content in the soil will change the color, and I’ve worked so hard to achieve this dusty shade of pink.”
The woman was madder than a hatter. I couldn’t even compose a witty comeback.
“What are they quarreling about?” Tinkie, always the practical partner, asked.
“I don’t know. I have to stop it, though. Think what it will do to my B and B’s reputation if two guests try to kill each other.”
“It might increase business,” I said.
All expression dropped from Gertrude’s face, followed by sudden hope. “Do you really think so? The economy has been awful. Business is down forty percent,
and I could use a boost.”
“Where are they?” Tinkie pushed me toward the car.
“The hydrangea garden,” Gertrude said with some irritation. She didn’t like repeating herself.
“Where are the hydrangeas?” I asked.
“Behind the summerhouse.”
I had a general idea. The grounds of the B and B sprawled for hundreds of acres. Gertrude had developed gardens on thirty acres centered around the physical building, but there were nature trails and wooded acreage behind us. I jumped behind the wheel of the car and Tinkie and I took off. We went straight through the parking lot and behind the tennis courts. I halted beneath the branches of an incredible old oak. In the distance I heard, “I’m gonna gitchew, you sonofabitch-chew.”
I was stunned Dr. Olive Twist knew the lyrics to a Kinky Friedman tune—much less could imitate a Texas-Jewish accent. Perhaps there was hope for her.
Instead of musing on musical heroes, Tinkie sprang from the car and ran into the clearing. “What the hell?” was her bemused comment.
I followed and found Webber and Twist standing inches apart, facing each other. Neither held a weapon, and both were red-faced from fury.
“You aren’t a historian, you’re a terrorist!” Olive shouted at Webber.
“And you, madam, are no lady!” Webber responded, making me ponder where I’d heard that line.
Twist beat me to it. “So you fancy yourself a modern-day Rhett Butler! Dream on, you bloodless ponce.” Twist’s smirk was a victory lap.
Webber drew himself up to his full height. “And you fancy yourself a human being. Better get your DNA checked.”
“My DNA is registered, which can’t be said for your intellect. Can you even hit double digits on the IQ scale?”
Oh, ouch! Tinkie and I took seats on the roots of an old oak tree. It was like a tennis match, only much slower and there were no racquets or balls.
“Published much?” Webber sneered. “Let’s see, your last publication was in Weekly Reader. But oh, yes, it was peer-reviewed, I believe. A panel of second graders.”
“And your last book sold what, six copies? Didn’t your mother buy all of them?”
Smarty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Page 10