Crossed Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  The first place I stopped was Robert Pennington McBruce's rented estate. His car was gone and he didn't answer my knock. There was no sign of Nandy, so I drove on out to Holyrood. I hadn't seen her mother since high school, and I could see that Nandy's antics had taken a toll on her. Mrs. Shanahan's hair was snow-white and her mouth bracketed by deep wrinkles.

  “Go away,” she said before I could ask a single question.

  “May I speak with Nandy?”

  “You're no friend of my daughter's. She told me about you. Jealous! You always were. Even when you were a little girl, you were envious of Nandy.”

  “Mrs. Shanahan, I need to see Nandy.”

  “She's gone, thanks to you. She won't be coming back.”

  I didn't believe her. Not completely. Nandy would turn up again, like a bad penny. “Could you tell me where she is?” I asked.

  “Go to hell.” She slammed the door in my face and I was left with only the option of retreat.

  I was running out of time, but luck was with me. When I went by the courthouse the second time, Coleman's car was gone. I pulled in and gave Sweetie strict orders to remain in the passenger seat. She was wearing her sunglasses and scarf, definitely incognito.

  Using the hand trolley I'd found in the attic, I trundled the records into the courthouse. I wheeled my cargo into the sheriff's office and noted, with satisfaction, the absence of Bo-Peep. Dewayne was acting as dispatcher.

  “Coleman asked me to leave these in his office,” I said, wheeling by him. He was too green to think to challenge me. In my previous visits, I'd noticed that Coleman's office contained a closet. That was my destination. Just in case things got out of hand, I didn't want anything to happen to Emanuel's records. I left the trolley, too, and a little something extra I liked to think of as the cavalry.

  Walking back out, I stopped by the desk. “Don't mention I was here. It's . . . best.” I hurried out knowing that Dewayne would never dare broach the emotional waters of my visit to Coleman.

  Swinging by Dahlia House, I made sure Sweetie was inside and Reveler in his stall. I wanted everything locked down. I'd learned the hard way that my most vulnerable point was the people and things I loved.

  Dusk was falling on the Delta as I drove through the cotton fields. I pulled into the unpaved front parking lot of WBLK-FM radio station, a small white frame building that had been built in the middle of a huge cotton field. There was a solitary Mercury Sable parked in front of the door.

  WBLK wasn't one of the top market stations. It wasn't powerful enough to extend much beyond the boundaries of Sunflower County. But it was the local blues station that competed with Memphis—and actually did a superior job. The evening-shift DJ was Doctor Lucky, an award-winning musicologist who hid his college education behind a lot of shuck and jive. Doctor Lucky was very interested in a little illegal blues medicine.

  I carried one record in my hand and my Aunt LouLane's suitcase phonograph in the other. When I walked in the front door, Doctor Lucky was sitting at a soundboard, talking into a microphone.

  “There's a little lady here tonight says she's got somethin' that's gonna make every single one of you loyal listeners want to get down on the floor and scream. If she has the real thing, you folks are just about to hear something you ain't never heard before. Now listen up to Keb Mo while I use a few muscles other than those in my tongue.”

  He started the music and then got up to help me. It took him only a minute to set up the phonograph. When he was done, he looked at me. “If this is some kind of a joke—”

  “I swear. It's Elvis Presley and Ivory Keys. The cut was pressed back before Elvis was Elvis.”

  Doctor Lucky flipped the switch for the mike. “Folks, Miss Sarah Booth Delaney, our homegrown P.I., has found a real treasure, though I'm afraid the quality of the sound won't be the best. Funky old turntable piece of crap. But it looks like it works. So sit back and test your blues I.Q. Call in and tell me who's playin' on this cut.”

  He started the record as he held the microphone down by the phonograph speakers. “Holy shit,” he breathed, looking up at me with big eyes. “It's Elvis. And Ivory Keys.”

  Only the first verse of the song had played when the phones lit up—all three lines. Doctor Lucky didn't bother answering it. He sat mesmerized, watching that old black record spin on the slightly warped turntable.

  When it was over, he slapped on another song without even announcing it. “What are you gonna do with that record?” he asked in a voice that might have been used to refer to a religious icon.

  “Catch me a killer,” I said, snapping the lid shut on the phonograph. I walked out and got in the car.

  My car radio was tuned to WBLK as I drove away. Doctor Lucky was fielding questions and comments as fast as he could. And every few seconds he mentioned that the record had been brought to the radio station compliments of Sarah Booth Delaney.

  It was the perfect setup.

  31

  I was riding high, satisfied with my day's work, when the cell phone rang. I hated the dang thing, but I carried it, when I remembered, because I'd promised Tinkie.

  “Sarah Booth!” Cece was breathless. “I just got a call from one of my sources. Where did you get that record?”

  “It's a long story,” I said. This was going to be another one of those cases where my conscience was going to bother me for years to come, yet I had no choice. “Did you like it?”

  “I can't believe you didn't tell me, dahling. It makes one feel left out.”

  Her voice was laced with genuine hurt that I hadn't confided in her. “I just got my hands on the record this afternoon,” I reassured her. “I haven't told anyone, except Doctor Lucky, who insisted that I bring it right over.”

  “I've got to interview you, dahling,” she said. “Do you have any idea what that record is?”

  “I think it may be valuable.”

  Cece gasped. “Valuable? I think you'd better call Harold and tell him to get ready to enlarge the vault at the bank. Honey, that record is worth a fortune.”

  “There's not just one record. I have twenty-one more.”

  The fact that Cece was speechless said more than anything else could have.

  “You know, Bridge told me about these records, but I didn't believe they existed,” I said, talking as casually as I could. “Won't he be shocked?”

  “He'll be very excited. He's mentioned them to me several times. Sarah Booth, where are those records?” Cece's voice had gone from enthusiastic to concerned.

  “They're in my trunk. I'm taking them out to Scott's tonight. Technically, they belong to him.”

  “I don't believe you! Tinkie told me how cruel Scott was to you. Mildly interesting. Dahling, I'd put his dick in a splint. Talk like that could ruin your social life.”

  “Scott was awful.” There wasn't any point lying about it. Tinkie would have told Millie, too. Not to gossip, but to prepare my friends to be ready to support me. “He was mean, but the records are his.”

  “I'm sorry, Sarah Booth. He may be one sexy man, but he's a skunk when it comes to women. And speaking of women, have you heard the latest on Nandy Shanahan? She's been put in an institution by her family.”

  “What, they thought she was trying to commit suicide with a self-inflicted brow mutilation? Are they going to let her wear her tiara?” I couldn't resist. “Hey, maybe she can marry a nutcase Napoleon and rule all of Europe instead of just Scotland.”

  “Sarah Booth!” Cece said, delighting in my wickedness.

  “Do you know where her husband is?” I wanted to be sure McBruce wasn't around to spoil my plan. I didn't need any interruptions.

  “I happen to know for a fact that Robert Pennington McBruce closed up his rental house and moved to Glascow the very day that Nandy attacked herself. Dahling, he may talk like he has a mouth full of cockleburs, but he isn't a glutton for punishment. Not even the prospect of inheriting Nandy's family estate could convince him to linger. My sources tell me that he didn't bot
her to pack his things. He drove to Memphis and left his brand-new car in the lot. He called the bank from the airplane and told them to pick it up for repossession.”

  Cece's source could only be Oscar, via Tinkie. I had to hand it to my partner. Although Tinkie had never been at the top of the class in math, she'd demonstrated astute skills at cause-and-effect equations. She'd learned quickly that if she tugged one part of Oscar's anatomy, his mouth flew open. All kinds of interesting tidbits were liable to fall out.

  “You're positive Nandy is in loony town?” What I wanted was a fix on the human boil. I didn't want her launching a sneak attack, and I had a slight misgiving that her family had put her in an institution. Only the enemy would imprison the queen.

  “Honey, she's gone. The whole town is buzzing about her. McBruce went on a rampage at The Club just before he left and gave everyone who would listen a blow by blow of Nandy's eccentricities.” Cece purred. “She has an entire closet of human-sized Barbie outfits. Dr. Barbie, Barbie goes shopping, Barbie goes to the beach. She'll only have sex when she's wearing her Barbie goes to bed pink peignoir. I'm sure she's gone, Sarah Booth. She can't show her face around Zinnia. She may not be in an institution, but she's not in Zinnia, I'm sure of that.”

  “Thank goodness.” At least Nandy was one thing I could check off my list of toxic worries.

  “You're not still worried about her and Scott?” Cece's voice held disapproval. In her view, Scott had trampled all over my tender heart and my reputation as a sex partner. To cling to any hope of having him was just plain dumb. Perhaps because she'd been one, she understood that reform was hard-won in most members of the male species. A man got one chance with Cece.

  “After tonight, Nandy can have Scott.” I meant it, too. My lesson wasn't from the Daddy's Girl Book of Conduct. It came from the Delaney handbook—wounded pride is the best preventative for continued romantic stupidity. For a few short days, Scott had held up an image of a sensitive man who cared about me. Last night the glass had shattered, and I saw once again the arrogant, selfish man I'd first met in the jail cell.

  “What's going on tonight?” Cece asked.

  “I have to take those records to Scott. Then I'm dropping the case. Scott has made it very plain he doesn't want my help.”

  “Bravo,” Cece said. After a second's hesitation, she asked, “Are you still interested in Bridge? I know Tinkie tried to match the two of you up.”

  “I'm not romantically interested in Bridge,” I said, wishing more than anything I could warn her that Bridge was now my number-one suspect in the murder of Ivory Keys. But I needed her to remain ignorant of my plan, to help me prove Bridge's guilt or innocence. My consolation was that Cece was in no danger. She didn't have the records that Bridge wanted so badly. I did.

  “Thanks, girlfriend.”

  “Don't thank me,” I said after I hung up. There was only one other loose end I needed to tie up.

  Millie put the bowl of turnip greens in front of me with a wary eye. “Are you sick?"

  “No,” I assured her as I picked up my fork.

  “The fried chicken is hot.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “What about a hamburger steak smothered in onion gravy? Mashed potatoes?”

  I shook my head.

  “Sarah Booth, you must be sick. There's not enough grease in those greens to count for anything. You always eat grease. And catsup.”

  I took a long swallow of my iced tea. “I'm just not in the mood for anything fried.”

  “Are you in the mood for anything . . . Elvis!” She stacked plates piled high with mashed potatoes and chicken all along one arm. “I heard about your record on the blues station. You are something else, Sarah Booth. I'll bet your mama had that record, didn't she? Did you know about it all along? Be right back!” She wheeled across the restaurant, delivering meals to hungry patrons. She was back in less than a minute.

  “The record's existence was a big surprise to me,” I said. “So have you seen Spider and Ray-Ban?”

  She made sure all of her customers were happy and then took a seat on the stool beside me. “I haven't. In fact, no one has seen them since Wednesday.” At my concerned expression she asked, “That's good, isn't it? Scott will stand a better chance if they aren't running around pissing everyone off, right?” Her eyes widened. “Not that we want Scott to get off after what he did to you. He deserves to be locked up.” She restrained herself from repeating the mildly interesting in bed remark.

  I decided to let the whole Scott thing drop. To be honest, I was a little tired of being viewed as a victim of blighted romance. “I'd rather know where those two troublemakers are.”

  She nodded. “Have you asked Coleman? He may have run them out of town.”

  I dug into my turnips and didn't answer. I hadn't talked to Coleman since he fired Bo-Peep. But I was going to have to, and sooner rather than later. “If you saw them Wednesday morning, they were in town Tuesday night, which was the night someone threw a Molotov cocktail at me.”

  “I suppose. But I was calculating it on the story in The Meteor about Julia Roberts being abducted by aliens and possibly impregnated by Elvis. I bought that paper when I went to get some eggs so I could open the café Wednesday morning.”

  “I see,” I said, hoping that Millie would never have to testify to the time element.

  “Don't act so snooty. Everyone in town reads those magazines in the grocery check-out line. I'm just honest enough to pay for mine.”

  She was right about that. “Sorry,” I said.

  “Anyway, I was reading that story when the two of them came in. I remember clearly, because they were laughing about the cover with the Siamese twins cloned from one egg.” She shook her head. “It was an awful sad story, those two little babies sharing one set of lungs, and those two fools were laughing about it.”

  I didn't have to point out that they were creeps. Millie knew it as well as I did. “Did they say anything that might be important to the case?”

  “They said they were leaving town. The one with the sunglasses, he said that Scott had asked them to leave. He was pretty indignant about it, too. He said that Scott had broken the bond of brotherhood or some such foolishness. I pointed out right away that if they were really Scott's brothers, they would have left last week instead of stirring up hard feelings against Scott. Everyone in town knows they're the ones who set fire to Goody's Grocery. Coleman will get the evidence he needs to arrest them.”

  Millie didn't mince words, one of her better traits when it wasn't aimed at me. “Did either of them say where they were going?”

  “They said they were going to the Gulf Coast.” Her face brightened. “In fact, they said a specific place. The Golden Wheel bar in Biloxi. The reason I remember is because they said they were friends with the man who owned it, Jimmy John Franklin. You remember him. He did some time in Angola for a hit.” Her brow furrowed with concentration. “He had some highway official killed when his construction company didn't get a contract for a stretch of Interstate 10. Remember?”

  While Millie enjoyed the tabloids, she was also an avid reader of regular newspapers. “I have a vague memory,” I said, not wanting to admit that it was so vague it couldn't really be labeled a memory at all. I would never pass a test on current events.

  “Jimmy John Franklin just got out of Angola last year. It was a big stink in the papers when the state gave him a liquor license for his club, what with his criminal record and all. Maybe his wife applied for it.” She shook her head. “I don't remember the particulars.”

  “Thanks, Millie.” I finished the last of my turnips, paid, and walked out into the night. It wouldn't be long now.

  32

  Information gave me the number for the Golden Wheel in Biloxi, and I placed the call, adopting what I hoped was a sexy tone with notes of frightened dismay. Jimmy John Franklin came on the phone without a decrease in the sound of the honky-tonk jukebox.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Th
at bastard has gone off and left me.” I forced a desperate sob. “He promised me we were gonna get married.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Jimmy John obviously didn't like complications.

  “I'm talking about Ray-Ban. I need to talk to him. Is he there?”

  “Where'd you get my name?” Jimmy John was suddenly alert. “Who are you?”

  “Lana,” I said, hoping his knowledge of older stars wouldn't kick in. “Lana Taylor. Ray-Ban said you were a man who knew the score. He said you were solid. I need to talk to him. Ray-Ban's left me in a bad way, if you know what I mean.”

  “A likely story.” His suspicions were somewhat alleviated. “I'll give him the message.”

  “Is he there? I'd like to speak with him.”

  “He's busy.”

  “I really need to talk to him. Would you please put him on the phone?”

  “Honey, I said he was busy. I'll give him the message and if he wants to, he'll get back with you. But it looks to me like you need to focus on fixing your problem. I don't suspect ol' Ray-Ban's figuring on being a daddy.”

  I faked a sob. “Please. Just put him on the phone. Once he understands, I'm sure he'll do the right thing.”

  Jimmy John laughed. “You're not only pregnant, you're stupid. Ray-Ban ain't aiming to marry anybody. He's got his hands full with all he's got going on.”

  The phone clicked down.

  Perhaps my years in New York City hadn't been a total waste. I'd never wowed a Broadway audience, but I'd just pulled the wool over the eyes of one Mississippi hoodlum. I'd ascertained the information I needed—Ray-Ban was in Biloxi. That meant Spider was there, too. The road was clear to set my trap—except for Tinkie. I had to make sure she didn't wander into the middle of the fray.

  As I dialed her number, I made myself a stiff Jack on the rocks as a reward for my exceptional performance. I called Tinkie at home, and when there was no answer, I resorted to her cell phone. She loved the gizmo. Hers was a fancy flip version with a face that could be popped off at every whim and replaced with a coordinating color. Needless to say, she had more colors than Crayola Crayon.