Bones on the Bayou
A Sarah Booth Delaney Mississipi Delta short mystery
By
Carolyn Haines
Jealousy never shows a pretty face, and Christmas doesn’t make this less true. It was the green-eyed monster that prodded me onto a bridge over Silver Bayou in Shaw, Mississippi, on a December night as crisp and clear as anything Montana might offer. It felt like the frozen north—with a wind gusting at twenty miles per hour.
I burrowed deeper into the collar of my coat and jammed my gloved hands into my pockets. Beside me, my partner in Delaney Detective Agency, Tinkie Bellcase Richmond, tried not to shiver. She pulled a monogramed flask from her coat pocket and knocked back a jolt of Grey Goose, unconcerned that the crowd lining the bridge saw her. Such conduct usually fell at my feet, not Tinkie’s. She was a lady. I had no ambitions to hold that title.
“Alcohol won’t warm you up,” I reminded her. “It a vasodilator, so ultimately it makes you colder.” Talk about a role reversal, Tinkie was normally the voice of reason and I was the wild hare.
She took another swig.
Tinkie and her husband Oscar had assumed the roles of hormonal teenagers. All because of Enzo Aceto, a member of ‘the Italian delegation’—a group of Venice businessmen and women who were spending the Christmas holidays in the Mississippi Delta to explore a potential investment deal that could be an economic boon to the area.
“Oscar behaved like a fool.” Tinkie tipped the flask again.
“Did you speak with him today?” She’d spent last night with me, and most of the day at Dahlia House, except for a bit of shopping and an appointment at the hair salon.
“He didn’t call me and I am not about to call him.”
I had to snap her out of her funk. “Oscar is insecure. So what? It happens. And you were flirting with Enzo.” The whole peccadillo was a tempest in a teapot. Tinkie always flirted. As queen bee Daddy’s Girl, Tinkie was born and bred to string men behind her like she was the sexy pied piper and they were besotted rats. Oscar most often took pride in her accomplished skills. It had to be the pressures of the holiday season that had put my normally bubbly partner and her husband on edge.
It didn’t help that with Enzo, Tinkie had found a male counterpart. Dark, polished, virtually sex on a stick, Enzo zeroed in on Tinkie and they had flamed the hallowed halls of The Club in Zinnia with their suggestive repartee and innuendos. It had been like watching a verbal tango.
We’d all enjoyed the show as the two of them matched swords. Everyone, except Tinkie’s husband, had been greatly amused by the dance of coquetry. All of the state dignitaries in attendance, the politicians, the business owners, and those with wealth and power had applauded and encouraged the show.
End result: Tinkie and Oscar had a very public fight and Tinkie stormed out of The Club and came to Dahlia House where she’d spent the night. And now refused to go home to Hilltop.
If Oscar meant to woo her home, I’d seen no signs of it.
“You hurt Oscar’s pride. You’re an accomplished male manipulator. You know better!” The schoolmarm role did not comfortably fit me, but someone had to take action.
“Oscar needs to grow up. Enzo is a master of the tease, and I enjoyed sparring with him. That’s it. He’s a handsome man and I’m sure he’ll cut a swath through the available Delta female population. Not my concern.”
I nudged Tinkie. “I know that. So does Oscar when he stops letting jealousy rule his emotions. You should be flattered your husband cares enough to get jealous.”
In the light from the bridge, I saw Tinkie’s lips purse. “He should have come to this ceremony with me. We planned it weeks ago as a romantic evening. Not to mention the Zinnia National Bank stands to gain a lot of business if the Italians decide to invest in Shaw. My daddy is not going to be happy with Oscar.”
Tinkie’s dad, Avery Bellcase, owned the bank and Oscar ran it. “Oscar does a great job and your daddy knows that, too.”
“He does, but this Italian investment could be a good thing for the whole Delta.”
The small town of Shaw had once been settled by Italians and still held a population with blood ties to Italy. The festivities for the night—a flotilla of miniature, lighted Christmas floats set to drift down Silver Bayou—had been planned as a special tribute to the visiting delegation from Venice. The Christmas tradition, which had long been retired, had been resurrected especially for the Venetians.
Far down the bayou, bright green, red, blue, gold, and silver lights drifted on a gentle current. The brisk December night clamped over the Delta like an over-turned bowl of stars, and in the distance, children laughed and raced along Silver Bayou, keeping pace with the twinkling floats.
“This really is magical,” I said, unable to suppress the kid in me that Christmas never failed to bring out. “I’m sorry Oscar got his butt on his shoulders.” As the parade came toward the bridge, I braced on the railing. Some thirty floats had been entered, and along the banks the crowds were laughing and clapping as the first float passed them.
“Thank you for coming with me,” Tinkie said.
“Not a problem.” I was freezing, and since I was driving I wasn’t drinking. Tinkie would do the same for me—and had in the past.
“When I was a little girl, Daddy brought me to the Shaw Christmas on the Bayou every year. Mother wouldn’t come, so I had Daddy all to myself. The miniature floats, all lighted and built with such care, were magical.”
“Maybe you should have invited Avery?” Tinkie was obviously missing familial connection
“Dad and Mother are out of town,” Tinkie said. “Daddy’s turning more and more of the bank business over to Oscar. He and Mother travel nine months out of the year.”
On top of being angry with her husband, Tinkie felt abandoned at Christmas. I liked Tinkie’s father, but her mother remained a stranger to me. I didn’t understand why they didn’t take greater care of Tinkie’s feelings. Christmas was a time when family was important.
“Look, the first float is almost here!” I drew Tinkie to the cement railing, glad to snuggle into the crowd for warmth. The first float contained a beautiful, lighted Christmas tree complete with miniature gift-wrapped packages beneath branches loaded with ornaments. The detail and care made the crowd clap and whistle as it disappeared under the bridge.
Angels filled the second float, and the builder had rigged up a recording of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.”
Spectators picked up the song and caroled as the float passed. The evening swept me back to a different time, one where the world was safer and small town living reflected a Norman Rockwell painting.
The floats came along, one by one. Wise men, nativity scenes, snowmen, and finally, the last float held a miniature Santa and eight reindeer, rising into the sky. The floats drifted on the current in a neat line, except for the last one, which lagged behind.
“It looks like it’s dragging something,” I said. Tinkie and I leaned over the railing to get a better view.
At first, I thought my vision was off, especially since no one else seemed to notice. Two pale mounds broke the dark surface of the water and then disappeared, a miniature Moby Dick. Whatever it was slid beneath the water.
“That looked like buttocks,” Tinkie said loud enough so that several people stared at us.
“That’s Tinkie Richmond, and she’s drunk,” a woman said, nudging her husband away from Tinkie. “Some people have no idea how to behave at a family Christmas gathering.”
I hurried to the other side of the bridge, dragging Tinkie with me and fighting th
e crowd that was dispersing. Leaning over the rail, I almost screamed. Pale white arms and legs floated to the black surface of Silver Bayou, only to submerge beneath the dark surface as the reindeer moved down the waterway. Two minutes later and ten yards downstream, a rounded derriere rose to the surface.
Tinkie gripped my wrist in a vice. “There’s a body hooked to the float,” we said together.
We weren’t the only people who witnessed the floater. All hell broke loose on the bridge. Tinkie and I hustled for the car.
Shaw police chief Pret Parker, a former Ole Miss running back, allowed Tinkie and me on the crime scene only because Tinkie had casually dated him in college. “I’m not sure you ladies should be witnessing this,” he said as we stood on the bayou’s grassy bank, waiting for two Shaw Search and Rescue volunteers to wade out of the water with the body. “Sometimes floaters can be really gruesome. It’s not a proper sight for a lady like you, Tinkie.”
“We can handle it, Pret,” Tinkie assured him. “Any idea who might have drowned?”
“Nope. Not really.” He frowned. “One of those I-talians has been reported missing.”
“Really?” I said. “Which one?”
“The one that’s been climbing in and out of beds all around the county.” Pret scratched his ear. “I don’t much care what folks do in the bedroom, but that Enzo Aceto has upset a lot of people. I’ve had men calling and complaining. And women too. I’ll be glad when they pack it in and go back to Italy.”
“Enzo is missing?” Tinkie wasn’t feigning shock.
“Yep. Since yesterday. He never came back from that big shindig at The Club in Zinnia. But I can’t imagine this drowning has anything to do with him. More likely he’s found a honey pot he can’t stay away from.”
A wild laugh came from the rescue workers in the water.
“Pret, you gotta see this!” one of the men called out.
They all laughed and began pulling the body toward the bank.
“Why are they laughing?” Tinkie asked. “This isn’t funny. Someone is dead.”
“Something isn’t right, Tinkie.” The body they had retrieved was unnatural. The arms and legs didn’t bend. And one man hauled it behind him with ease. “It’s a doll,” I said. “A life-sized party doll. The kind you blow up.”
“You have got to be kidding.” Tinkie started forward.
By the time I caught up with her, the men had the doll on the sloped bank.
“Holy Christmas,” I said.
“Would you look at that!” Tinkie was transfixed. The doll had a mat of black hair on its chest—rather ugly acrylic hair plastered down by the water. It had also been retrofitted with a black toupee and an elegant black mustache. And an erect appendage that waved in the freezing night.
“Is that—” Tinkie stepped forward, and I followed, unable to look away.
“Anybody want to try mouth to mouth,” a rescue volunteer said, eliciting hoots of laughter.
“It looks like that guy from Italy,” another said.
The rescue workers were snapping photos with their cell phones and laughing, punching each other. As inappropriate as it was, I whipped out my cell phone and took a few shots. Whoever had decorated the doll had made a clear point. A tiny little noose had been tightened around the plastic penis. Scrawled across the belly in magic marker were the words, “Casanova will die.”
“My goodness, it does look like Enzo,” Tinkie said.
And indeed it did.
By the time we got back to Dahlia House, Tinkie had fallen asleep with her face smashed against the cold passenger window of my car. She was so petite, I almost carried her inside, much to the joy of her little Yorkie, Chablis, and my hound and black cat. Once she was tucked into bed in the guest room, all of the critters guarding her, I called Oscar. He didn’t answer, so I left him a message.
“Enzo Aceto is missing and someone tied a male blow-up sex doll to a float in the Shaw Christmas on the Bayou. If you had anything to do with this, Oscar Richmond, you’d better call me. If you’ve done something to Enzo, tell me and I’ll get him back to Shaw. You and Tinkie have to patch this up and sooner rather than later.”
I’d just ended the call when the doorbell rang. It was one o’clock in the morning with only six days until Christmas. It sure wasn’t Santa at on my front porch. I opened the door to a disheveled Harold Erkwell, banker and friend.
“Oscar is missing,” he said. “I’ve searched everywhere.”
“What the hell is going on?” I asked. “Enzo Aceto is missing too and a male blow-up doll decorated to resemble Enzo was floated down Silver Bayou.” I one-upped him with ease. “The prankster lynched the doll’s penis.”
“I need a drink.” Harold brushed past me and went straight to the bar. When he had a vodka martini in his hand he settled on the horsehair sofa and patted the seat next to him. “Sit.”
I did, and I filled him in on the Christmas flotilla in Shaw.
“Well, deck the damn halls,” Harold said before he drained his glass. “Grab your warmest jacket and Sweetie Pie.” He eyed Pluto, my cat. Sensing he was the topic of conversation, Pluto jumped into Harold’s lap and rubbed his whiskers on Harold’s chin. “And the cat,” Harold added.
“Chablis is in the bedroom with Tinkie. She’s had too much to drink. Tinkie, not Chablis.” Chablis was Tinkie’s little Yorkie with the heart of a lion.
“We don’t need Tinkie, drunk or sober. She’ll be fine here with Chablis. We have work to do. Roscoe is in the car.”
Harold’s dog, Roscoe, had as keen a nose as Sweetie Pie. “Let’s make tracks.”
Dawn’s fuchsia arrival found Harold and me cruising beside Silver Bayou. The gentle creek wound through Shaw and open fields as it traversed Bolivar and Sunflower counties on the way to the river. The brisk cold gave the air a clarity that frosted the cotton stubble in the fields to a sparkling silver in the growing light. In the distance, I spied a black Land Rover resembling Oscar’s ride. “Is that—?”
“Yes.” Harold sped up. The dogs had fallen asleep in the back seat, but Pluto had his front paws on the dash and viewed the scene with interest.
“What in the hell has Oscar been up to?” I asked. I’d hoped to find him at the hunting camp, possibly holding Enzo hostage. This didn’t look good. Not at all.
We parked behind the Land Rover, and I let the dogs out. Sweetie Pie, a hound, hit a trail instantly that went from the edge of the water, across the road, and into a fallow field. Roscoe, part terrier and part imp, was hot on her heels.
“Time’s a’wastin’” I said as I took off at a run. Harold and Pluto examined the abandoned car and then followed behind me. Harold was in a hurry, but not Pluto. Cats are systemically opposed to the appearance of rushed.
The dogs made it into the tree line at the edge of the field, almost two miles from the road, before they stopped. Sweetie bayed success, her voice echoing as she danced around a body lying face down in a heap of fallen leaves. For a moment I thought Oscar was dead, but he moaned and shifted. Ice crystals froze his clothes to the leaves, and when he struggled, the ice crackled.
“Oscar!” Harold caught up with us and knelt beside him. “Oscar, sit up.”
Oscar tried to oblige, but his body wasn’t cooperating. I could smell the alcohol from where I stood. Even Sweetie’s eyes watered.
“How dare he try to seduce my wife?” Oscar gained an upright position, but he wove back and forth. “Well, I showed him.”
My gut clinched. Beneath Oscar, pressed into the leaves, was a pistol. Harold saw it too.
“Oscar, where is Enzo?” Harold shook him lightly. “What did you do?”
“He won’t chase any more women.” Oscar slumped back to the ground, his eyes rolling up in his head.
“Call Ms. Tierce. Oscar needs a good lawyer,” Harold directed me as he lifted Oscar to his feet. “And don’t touch the gun.”
“We can’t leave it here.” I had the attorney’s number in my phone and I searched for it
as I argued. “I mean, if it’s been shot…”
“We can’t hide evidence.” Harold sounded angry, but he was worried.
“It’s Oscar,” I reminded him. “My best friend’s husband.” I’d never viewed Oscar as a man with emotional issues, but he’d been so unreasonably upset at Enzo’s and Tinkie’s ridiculous flirtations--their behavior had bordered on soap opera caricature. “Oscar wouldn’t shot someone over a bit of foolishness.”
“The evidence speaks to the contrary,” Harold said. “Pick the gun up, but don’t touch it. If something terrible has happened, it may exonerate Oscar.”
I used a stick to snag the gun at the trigger guard. Harold was right. Until we knew what Oscar had done, we had to preserve all evidence.
“Call Tinkie,” Harold said as he put Oscar’s arm around his neck and half dragged, half carried him toward the road. It would be a long trek and Oscar did nothing to help himself.
“I’ll get the Land Rover and drive across the field.” The SUV could manage the terrain.
“Hurry,” Harold said. “I’m afraid Oscar is suffering from hypothermia. He’s wet from the waist down.”
Not what I wanted to hear. It implied Oscar had been in the bayou.
Cece Dee Falcon, reporter for The Zinnia Dispatch, arrived at the Sunflower County Hospital with her camera and notebook. Instead of asking questions, she sat down beside Tinkie and hugged her hard. “What the hell happened? I just got back from Shaw. The Italian delegation is hysterical over Enzo’s disappearance. They claim he’s been kidnapped by someone opposed to the development. Of course I believe he’s in the sack with a woman. If he is being held hostage, it’s by a jealous husband!”
I gave her the mean frown and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Is Oscar okay?”
Doc Sawyer came into the waiting room, his expression grim. “Tinkie, your husband will be fine. Had he stayed out in the cold any longer, though, he would have lost his toes and maybe his fingers and nose. What possessed him to get drunk, crawl in a lake, and then lay out in a cotton field?”
Bones on the Bayou: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Short Story Page 1