Booty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery

by Carolyn Haines

  “Will do,” I assured him.

  16

  My reluctance to return to the cottage led us to a bird sanctuary on the island. A large wooden plaque showed several nature trails and informed visitors that Dr. Phyllis Norris had marked the trails with the names of trees and plants and donated a substantial amount of money to create the preserve. Phyllis not only talked the talk, she walked the walk.

  The oak trees created an intimate space, the sun blasting like shotgun pellets through the wind-whipped leaves. Once we were out of the car and leaning against the hood, we were surrounded by birdcalls and the gentle sounds of nature. Clouds scudded across the sky, a typical day. No evidence of the storm building far to our south. The wind blew the oak limbs, scattering shadow and light, an ever-changing pattern that mimicked my emotions.

  “I have reasonable doubt that Larry Wofford killed John Trotter, but I don’t see a clear path toward proving his innocence,” Tinkie said.

  “I know. Arley was the most convincing witness against Larry. He told what he saw, nothing more. But it was damning. I’m not sure how to counteract that testimony. We’ve uncovered some interesting connections, but nothing that would overturn a conviction. I know someone else was on the boat, whether it was Remy or a paid killer. I just can’t prove it.”

  “The murder weapon was never found,” Tinkie mused. “Is there a chance we could find it?”

  “I doubt we’ll unearth it. Even if the killer kept it, we don’t know where to look. Sheriff Benson’s not going to help us.”

  “Maybe we can turn up another witness. Someone who hasn’t come forward. If there was a motorboat, maybe someone else heard it.” Tinkie pushed off the car and wandered down a trail. “Let’s walk. I think better when I’m moving.”

  “Unless we can come up with a suspect with a dynamite motive for killing John Trotter, I don’t see a way to help Wofford.” I sighed. “This is a next-to-perfect frame-up.”

  “So our potential motives are to punish Angela for nosing into things, or to steal the Esmeralda treasure from John, or some unknown reason we have yet to discover.”

  “Money and sex are the most common motives for murder.”

  “Don’t discount revenge. A lot of people are driven by the desire to get even.”

  She was correct. “If this hurricane blows in, the physical changes to the island could be catastrophic. If there’s any evidence—and that’s a big if—laying around, we need to find it before it’s blown away.”

  “Talk about putting pressure on a person. Let’s just hope Margene cuts east or west and all we get is a bit of rain. Poor Cece is going nuts with worry. Whoever dreamed we’d be facing a hurricane on Halloween.”

  As if speaking her name had conjured her up, Tinkie’s cell phone rang and Cece was on the line. I could hear her agitation from ten feet away.

  “Calm down,” Tinkie suggested. “Sarah Booth is here with me. Now tell us both what’s the trouble.” She switched the phone to speaker.

  “You will not believe this. You simply will not! It’s an outrage.”

  “What’s wrong?” Tinkie and I asked in unison. It was one of our trademarks—to say the same thing at the same moment.

  “Cornelia Holsteadler, she’s the problem.”

  “Because?” It wouldn’t take much to prompt Cece into a full-blown hissy fit, so I tried to speak objectively—and calmly.

  “She copied my ball gown! And she swears she’s going to wear the imitation to the Black and Orange Ball.”

  “The bitch!” Tinkie was ready to do battle. “She can’t. We’ll stop her.”

  “How?” It was kerosene on a fire, but someone had to ask.

  “We’ll catch her and strip it off her.” Tinkie’s words weren’t empty threats.

  “Ladies, calm down.” I had to be pragmatic. A copycat dress wasn’t a catastrophe to me, but Cece had spent months finding the perfect dress, having it fitted, making sure that she would be belle of the ball. And she’d earned the right to shine. I knew Cornelia Holsteadler by reputation, which was that she’d never had an original thought in her brain but that she had a fat checking account and often bought the creativity of others. She’d been jealous of Cece and her work with the Black and Orange Ball and fund-raiser for charity for the past several years. Now she’d struck like a viper.

  “I can’t calm down,” Cece said. “I’ve spent eleven months working on this ball. She’s going to ruin it for me.”

  “No, she won’t.”

  “And just because you ask her pretty please, you think she’ll cave?” Cece asked. “I need a wooden stake and some silver. That unoriginal hussy needs to be staked and put in the ground. I’ll have to make sure she doesn’t dig her way out.”

  “Colorful, Cece, but not necessary.”

  “Okay, Miss Smarty-Pants. How would you handle it?” she asked.

  “Covert action. Pretend to be a maid, slip into her room, do what’s necessary.”

  After a long moment of silence, Tinkie spoke. “That’s good, Sarah Booth. Cece can so pull that off.”

  “If reason won’t work, take an action that ends it. Once the dress is … dispatched, she won’t have time to whip up another imitation.”

  “Perfect. Thank you, Sarah Booth. Now here’s the information you asked for. This Clampett woman has quite a rap sheet. She did some time here in New Orleans for theft. Worked as a bartender here and along the Mississippi Gulf Coast. No serious crimes, mostly shoplifting, that kind of thing.”

  “Did you get an address on her?” I asked.

  “Last address on file was from a year ago. She was living with her brother off Heron Bay Road.”

  “Her brother? Would his name be Remy Renault?”

  “Bingo, dah-link!”

  Tinkie and I exchanged excited looks. “Thanks, Cece. That helps a lot.”

  “Glad to be of service. So when are you coming to New Orleans? Tinkie, I need you back here.”

  “Soon,” we said together. “Very soon.”

  The conversation done, I angled back to the car. “So easy for me to solve Cece’s wardrobe problems, but I can’t decide what to do about Graf.”

  “My best advice is to get through the Black and Orange Ball. Once you’re home at Dahlia House, have a long conversation.”

  “Can I wait?” I asked myself as much as her.

  “Can you afford not to? You’ve made a bunch of assumptions”—she held up a hand to forestall my immediate defense. “Logical assumptions, I agree. It looks bad, especially with their past romantic involvement. But give the man a chance to tell you the facts. She’s a screenwriter. This could be business.”

  * * *

  As soon as we reached the cottage, I telephoned Angela. I needed more information on the maritime museum director, Lionel Prevatt, and Angela was the place to start. When she didn’t answer, I left a message and walked by Graf’s phone. Where had he gone that he’d left his cell phone? Maybe just down to the water.

  Opening the sliding glass door, I eased through and stepped onto the balcony. Tinkie had snapped on the TV, and a meteorologist was giving new coordinates on Hurricane Margene. Not much had changed. She still moved north-northwest but hadn’t picked up a strong steering current. Her barometric pressure had dropped another couple of bars, indicating she was gaining strength.

  Arley had mentioned how Angela would be ready to sell the Miss Adventure if a hurricane blew in. I hoped we wouldn’t have to find out if he was correct.

  At the edge of the surf, movement caught my eye. To my surprise, Graf was alone on the beach, sitting in the sand where the surf stopped at his toes. A big wave would soak him, but judging from his posture, he didn’t care. Strange that he hadn’t brought the critters with him. Instead, he’d left them shut up in the cottage.

  I could read a lot into that if I let myself. Instead, I closed the door and went to his phone. Only a fool would pass up such an opportunity. There were no voice messages, but there were texts from Marion Silber. I wro
te down her number and read the messages that consisted of times to meet and the usual place.

  No sexting. No romantic messages. Just business-sounding meetings. Except Graf had failed to tell me anything about the woman or the reason he kept meeting her.

  My cell phone rang, and my heart almost stopped. Guilt. It wasn’t a comfortable fit. I’d stooped to snooping on my man. How tawdry. And while I’d lost a chunk of my pride, I’d learned nothing of significance. Hardly a fair transaction.

  I answered Angela’s call and put the question to her about Prevatt.

  “Lionel is officious and dangerous. He figured out that my father really wanted that telescope back.”

  “Were you aware Prevatt attempted to force a partnership on your father?”

  “Dad never told me, but it makes sense. Prevatt knew how badly Dad wanted that telescope, so I’m not surprised he tried to blackmail his way into being Dad’s partner.” Angela was slightly breathless. “Prevatt isn’t the kind of man who would kill, but he would certainly rob a grave.”

  “Did your dad ever say he was worried about Prevatt, or concerned?”

  “Dad treated Prevatt like a joke, until he couldn’t get the telescope back. My father hid too much from me, all in an effort to protect me. Deception is deception, no matter what label you put on it.”

  Truer words, etcetera etcetera. “Did your father have any other business dealings with Prevatt?”

  “None I know of,” Angela answered cautiously. “I wish he’d told me how the spyglass plays into the treasure. It’s old and a pretty piece, but he was obsessed with getting it back.”

  “I looked at the spyglass. It’s an antique, but the lens has a scratch. I wouldn’t think it would be that valuable.”

  “To my father it was.”

  “The question to ask is, why?”

  “Hard to do when Lionel wouldn’t even let me touch the damn thing.”

  “He won’t let me near it again, either. Can we appeal to someone at the university?”

  “I seriously doubt it, but I’ll ask around. Have you learned anything else?”

  “Angela, what do you know about your father’s relationship with Remy Renault?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “I think he may have killed Dad. I didn’t want to say anything or influence you, but you’ve dug him up all on your own. He was so jealous of my father. At first, he hung around trying to be friendly and weasel his way into helping in the hunt for the Esmeralda treasure. But when he realized Dad would never include him, he became angry and vindictive. He’d damage the boats in the marina and try to make it look like my father did it. He’s a snake.”

  Renault was getting hotter and hotter as a potential suspect. “Did you ever meet his sister?”

  “He has a sister?”

  That was answer enough. “Thanks. That helps.”

  “Be careful, Sarah Booth. He had a girlfriend, Lydia something. They were always scheming and conniving. I think they’d kill for a profit without blinking an eye.”

  So Lydia was a girl for all seasons—sister, girlfriend, she apparently assumed whatever role she needed to play. “I’ll look into this Lydia, too.” I didn’t want to frighten Angela, but I filled her in about the reckless driver on the bridge.

  “Sarah Booth, you should let this case go.” She was upset. “I’m serious. You came here to help your fiancé heal, and now someone is trying to hurt you. And someone did shoot out my windows. They’re armed and willing to discharge a weapon. None of this is good. In fact, it could be awful. I think this has gone far enough. I’ll pay you for your time.”

  “I’m not ready to call it quits. I want to do some checking on Prevatt. Just background stuff. Nothing dangerous.”

  Her hesitation alerted me. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Everything we do seems to upset someone. I was having dinner at the Crab Shed and Randy Chavis came in. He told me Prevatt had filed a complaint against you and your partner. Said you’d tried to steal something. He made a scene at the sheriff’s office, but there weren’t grounds to press charges. Chavis also accused me of trying to ruin his name. He vowed he’d fight back with everything he had.”

  Chavis was involved in this up to his eyeteeth. I just couldn’t put together how. “Do you think he was threatening you? Like with physical harm?”

  “No, he wouldn’t beat me or shoot me. At least I didn’t think so until you told me about the car trying to hit you on the bridge. Hey! What kind of car was it?”

  I wished I had a better description. I’d been blinded by the headlights when it came at me, and then it had disappeared over the hump of the bridge. “Black or dark blue. Something like a Crown Vic. You know, a heavier sedan. Sounds suspiciously like the dark car driving down your street when your windows were shot out.”

  “Maybe like a police car that’s been painted?”

  “Exactly like that. Why?”

  “Randy bought one of the unmarked police cars at an auction. He had it painted black. The joke around town was that he was on the clock even when he wasn’t. Folks around here give him a hard time about his job. It isn’t undeserved. He thinks his badge puts him above the law.”

  So I’d heard. But that wasn’t what interested me. The fact that Randy Chavis could have been the driver who tried to run me down was what held my attention.

  “I’ll check on Chavis’s car and then find out what I can about Prevatt.”

  “He was hired by the university about ten years ago, when they opened the museum. He appears to be a knowledgeable curator.”

  “Just not a very nice person,” I added.

  “Please be careful, Sarah Booth. I can’t take it if one more person gets hurt.”

  “Angela, have you considered selling your dad’s boat? I saw where you’d had it painted.”

  I couldn’t tell if the silence on the other end of the phone was resignation or maybe a little annoyance that I was butting into private territory. “It’s odd how life changes you. In the past I resented every moment of polish and paint, every dollar my father put into the Miss Adventure. She was my competition for his time and love. I’d watch him polish the brass in the wheelhouse and think that not one time had he ever brushed my hair or tied my shoes. He was always gone. And I hated the Miss Adventure.”

  “And now?”

  “When I work on her or make sure she’s in tip-top shape, I feel closer to my dad. She’s the link that holds him near me.”

  I wanted to tell her that such slavery to a boat was foolishness. That she should sell the boat and free herself from such a big expense. But how could I, the girl who refused a movie career to stay in the ancestral home, give that advice to anyone? “I understand.”

  “Has Phyllis been chewing on your ear about it?”

  I laughed out loud. “How did you know?”

  “It’s her favorite refrain. She thinks she’s saving me from myself. In her eyes, my attachment to the boat is sick. She thinks I should sell it and move away from the island. Find a new life, one where I can fall in love and start a family and just live the whole picket-fence dream.”

  Angela wasn’t the picket-fence type, even I could see that. “It’s nice someone is looking out for you, even if it isn’t the way you need.”

  “Story of my life. The folks who care about me often hurt me the worst.”

  Graf popped unbidden into my mind. “Story of everyone’s life, Angela. I’ll let you know what I find out about Prevatt and about Chavis’s car.”

  When I hung up, I pulled out the laptop and researched Lionel Prevatt’s past. My first Google search turned up his bio page. While not exactly dark, it was more interesting than I’d ever anticipated. He got his PhD in museum management from Brentledge University, a place I wasn’t familiar with. Then again, I hadn’t spent a lot of time learning about doctorates in museum management.

  He was originally from Oklahoma, but he’d left after high school and done a stint in the navy. He won a medal for rescuing a fellow sail
or who fell overboard. In 1990 he finished graduate school. And then there was a gap from 1990 until 2000, when he moved to Mobile to run the maritime museum on the university campus.

  If anyone searched my online résumé, there would be gaps of years when I was trying to act on Broadway and working here and there as a waitress or whatever fill-in job I could find. But a ten-year gap was a bit perplexing for Prevatt, who would certainly have been employed in some federal or state job. Interesting but not criminal. He may have worked overseas or in a private situation.

  The car registration was a little trickier, and I had to ask Deputy DeWayne Dattilo in Sunflower County to lend a hand. Turned out, Randy Chavis owned a black Crown Vic, model 2011. The vehicle was similar to the one that tried to run over me and Tinkie.

  Chavis was definitely a man to watch. With that in mind, I put in a call to my favorite sheriff.

  “How’s the beach vacation, Sarah Booth? Are you coming home all tan and rested?”

  His question caught me off guard. It was the antithesis of my vacation. “Sun isn’t good for skin,” I managed, trying not to outright lie or, even worse, let him hear my concerns in my voice.

  “Since when has the notion of something being bad for you stopped you?”

  He was teasing, and I spurred myself to answer in kind. “I turned over a new leaf. Don’t you know? I’m only doing things good for me.”

  “How much did your nose grow?”

  He made me laugh. “Okay, so maybe a few things bad. Like Officer Randy Chavis. Can you check him out?”

  “You want me to run a background on a fellow law officer?”

  Until he said it, I hadn’t realized how much I was asking. “Never mind. Bad question. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “What do you suspect Chavis of doing?”

  So I told him about the bridge and the car.

  “Give me an hour or two. I’ll make some calls.” Coleman, like other good law officers, wanted to weed the bad ones out of the profession. Trying to run down two women—if that had indeed been Chavis—would put him way on the wrong side of the law.

  * * *

  Tinkie offered to drive back to New Orleans and give Graf space, but I asked her to stay. I opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. Tinkie plopped in front of the television.