Sarah Booth Delaney

by Sarah Booth Delaney 01-06 (lit)

  Tinkie's driveway curved up to the house, where lights blazed from all of the downstairs windows and the upstairs bedroom. The Richmonds are childless. It is just Tinkie, Oscar, and Chablis. I parked on a road that leads back to the river and scurried toward the house. When I was thirty yards away, I eased into the azalea bushes and waited.

  At ten, the front door opened and Chablis tiptoed out into the grass. The door closed on Tinkie's wind chime laughter. None of the earlier distress was in her voice, and I was once again amazed at the artfulness of a desperate woman. A scene in seventh grade math class came back to me, and I knew exactly the moment Tinkie had crystallized, the first time her wiles worked on a man other than her father. The math teacher didn't have a chance. Tinkie's big blue eyes shimmered with tears, and that pouty little lip popped out, followed by a laugh of self-deprecation. She passed.

  All of the Daddy's Girls knew the techniques of manipulation, had, in fact, been trained at Daddy's knee. I was the exception. My mother believed in reasoning and logical discussion. My lessons in female skills came later in life from Aunt LouLane, after my parents were dead.

  Still, all of us girls, the daughters of privilege and breeding, had been taught that the hardships in life could be avoided by a simple formula that added up to Machiavellian manipulation. Sex appeal was the easiest tool of all to use, but there were many, many others.

  But I wasn't lurking in Tinkie's bushes to philosophize on Tinkie's skills. Chablis had pranced just beyond the drive, done her business, and was headed back to the house. I whistled softly to her. At first she hesitated, and I considered running forward and snatching her. She was in the light from the windows, and if Tinkie opened the front door, I'd be caught red-handed.

  I whistled again and tossed a niblet of the hamburger. In less than twenty seconds, Chablis was stuffed into the warmth of my jacket, munching the bun and burger.

  The deed was done. I had committed theft. Chablis snuggled against my black heart as I ran through the night.

  I took the back roads home. With the dog asleep in my jacket, I didn't bother covering the car. Not even a repo man would be out on such a cold and bitter night. I hurried around the house, still not really believing that I'd stooped to stealing Tinkie Bellcase Richmond's pet dog.

  "I'll pamper you to pieces," I promised Chablis as I crept up the back steps. My timing was perfect. The fruitcakes were ready to come out of the oven. I wondered if any other Delaney woman had combined theft and baking. I suppose not. Multitasking is the obsession of my generation.

  I was totally unprepared when the man stepped out of the bridal wreath beside the steps. His hand shot out and grabbed my arm. "I've been waiting here for nearly an hour," he said.

  Only the fear of setting Chablis to barking kept me from screaming. I stifled the scream and spoke calmly. "Well, Harold, I didn't realize you'd taken to skulking around my yard." I shook free of his grip. I had to get inside and unload the dog before Chablis made her presence known. Harold worked side by side with Tinkie's father at the Bank of Zinnia, and he would easily recognize the dog.

  "Where have you been?" he asked.

  "I have to go ... to the ladies' room." It was a statement no gentleman could question. Bathroom functions were never, ever up for discussion. I told him to wait in the kitchen for me as I rushed upstairs and put Chablis in my bedroom. Jitty, of course, was absent. It had been her idea to steal the dog, and she wasn't even around to help.

  There was no time for recriminations. Harold Erkwell and the other fruitcakes waited for me in the kitchen. Perhaps it would be easier to give up tradition and let Dahlia House go.

  I hurried back down, glad, at least, to step into the warmth of the room. I didn't want to get my hopes up, but perhaps Harold had come with good news—that the bank had approved my loan application. One look at his face told me I was a fool.

  "You look flushed, Sarah Booth," he said from the shadows beside the sink. His was the soft, cultured voice of a man who never had to speak loudly to be heard. "Can I dare to hope that you're anxious to see me?"

  There was a courtliness to Harold that barely covered his true nature—bottom-feeder. But, a bottom-feeder with bucks. Fine judgments from a dog thief. He stepped forward, and I took in his suit, impeccably cut, and his salt-and-pepper hair, trimmed to perfection. He cut a handsome figure.

  I cut to the chase. "I have a headache, Harold." It wasn't a lie. My pounding head echoed my pounding heart. I was a novice at criminal behavior, and the episode had produced both a rush of anxiety and the most peculiar tingle of exhilaration.

  "The bank is going to reject your loan application."

  The news wasn't unexpected, but the loan had been my last hope. Even though I'd taken Chablis, the whole dognapping business was a finger in the dike, at best. I turned to the oven and began to remove the fruitcakes.

  "I could," he stepped to the table, "put in a good word for you. Perhaps."

  Very slowly I closed the oven door. "That would be very kind of you, Harold." I turned to face him. On certain levels and at certain times, conversation is still an art form. For decades, it has been the only weapon a woman is allowed. Though I'd disdained many of the talents Aunt LouLane tried to teach me, I'd proven an adept student at verbal strategies. Between a woman and a man there is a definite balance that must be maintained, a pretense of mutual respect.

  "The board will discuss your loan in the morning."

  His eyes were ice blue. Their clarity was tempered a bit by speculation, but the acuity had not suffered. He watched me carefully.

  "Anything you say in my behalf would be greatly appreciated," I responded. Oh, the dance. No harem woman had ever performed with more nuances.

  "It's a long shot," he said slowly, his pupils narrowing as he watched the effect of his words on me.

  "I've always heard you were the master of such things," I answered, scoring another good one.

  Harold's pupils shrank to pinpoints. "I don't know why I want you, Sarah Booth, but I do."

  He had crossed the line. Directness was not part of the exchange. I could have told him that his desire sprang from his need for challenge, something that Harold had seen so seldom that it intrigued him. He was not accustomed to being denied.

  "Once Dahlia House is sold, I'll leave Zinnia," I said, taking another tack.

  "If I told the board that we were . . . involved, they might look more favorably on your loan. It would seem there was some . . . backing behind you."

  No doubt. Harold had come to collect his payment up front, or behind, or any way he could get it. He was not a stupid man. "You can tell them whatever you think best," I pointed out.

  "I couldn't lie to the board of directors. It would be unethical."

  The things he wanted to do to me weren't exactly in the Ten Commandments, but that wasn't stopping him. My only option was to play for more time. "If the board's decision could be delayed," I suggested. "I need more time to think."

  "You've been thinking for months now."

  "What's another week?" I asked breathlessly, which wasn't artifice. "These things aren't to be taken lightly. It is the fulfillment of a woman's role, Harold. I want to be certain I can put my whole . . . self into it."

  "You'll have an answer for me by Thanksgiving?" he asked.

  "An answer for both of us," I replied, borrowing the bottom lip thing from Tinkie. I'd already stolen her dog; what the hell was a mannerism.

  "Sarah Booth," he said urgently, stepping forward, his gaze fastened on my wet lip. I did it again with such force that it popped out of my mouth with an audible sound. He started toward me with a gasp.

  I reached behind me, grabbed a hot fruitcake, and thrust it into his hands. "Take this and think of me," I said.

  He juggled the cake.

  I covered my face. "I can't bear this torment," I whispered. "I have to lie down." I'd suddenly remembered that I'd left my favorite Italian heels beside the bed, and if Chablis was a normal dog, my last pair of good
shoes was in danger of complete destruction.

  "I'll see you at Thanksgiving," Harold said, still shifting the cake from hand to hand.

  I fled the kitchen, leaving Harold to show himself out. As I mounted the stairs, I heard a distinct sound of disapproval.

  "Shut up," I warned Jitty. I was in no mood for her evaluation of the scene in the kitchen.

  "He's not that bad," she said, following me up the stairs. "It's not like he was asking to marry you. He just wants a little female companionship. Maybe once a week. Twice at the most. Sitting behind a desk all day countin' his money, that's all he could hold up to."

  "Jitty," I spat, "enough!"

  I opened the bedroom door to find Chablis perched in the middle of my pillow. Or what was left of it. A single feather floated to the floor.

  Jitty looked around the corner of the door. "I say cut off one of the dog's ears and send it with the first ransom note. That way Tinkie'll know you mean business."

  I checked the note one last time. I'd cut the lettering from the local newspaper and used latex gloves and a hot-glue gun. It was amazing; all the tools of terrorism could be found in the local hardware store.

  "If you ever want to see your dog alive again, you'll need $5,000." I enclosed a snippet of Chablis's sun-glitzed hair so Tinkie would know I had the goods.

  Five thousand was a lot of money, but Tinkie had it to burn, and it was the smallest amount I could put toward the debt I owed at the bank. Five grand would buy me more time to figure out a legitimate way to save Dahlia House. One that didn't involve my healthy, at least for the moment, female organs.

  Addressing the envelope was a problem, but I found enough letters in advertisements and finally cut them out and pasted them on. While Chablis dined on Swan-son chunky white chicken meat, I dropped the note in the mailbox in the middle of town. Tinkie would have it in her hands by eleven. I consoled myself with the fact that at least she would know Chablis was alive.

  There was no time to rest on my laurels. The next communication had to be prepared. If Tinkie had any resistance to paying, the second note would catapult her into cooperation.

  3

  "You keep jumpin' up and down on that hunk o' plastic without the proper foundation garments, your breasts gone hang to your navel."

  I ignored Jitty and followed the video instructor as she executed the steps of the tango on the aerobic bench. I watched her breasts intently. They were large, and yet they didn't jiggle or bounce, and her sports bra was far skimpier than mine. Of course she didn't sweat, either. And not a hair straggled out of place. Perhaps genetic engineering was older than anyone knew.

  "What you want to build muscles for? Women are delicate. They don't need those ugly bulges. Men supposed to have the bulges." Jitty laughed naughtily.

  Flopping to the floor to add a two-pound leg weight, I glanced at her. She was reclining on the horsehide sofa beside Chablis. The dog watched me with an intensity that bordered on love. We had bonded. My attention went back to Jitty, who was wearing turquoise velveteen hot pants and a white satin blouse. I had to admit she didn't look bad for a double-decagenarian.

  Slightly behind the instructor, I scrambled to my hands and knees and started with the doggie hydrant leg lifts. Recognizing body language, Chablis began to bark.

  "You'd achieve the same results if you'd just show Harold a good time," Jitty said grumpily. "And you'd save Dahlia House to boot. Why you want to grunt and sweat all over the floor when it don't get you nothin'? I swear, your great-aunt Elizabeth was sensible compared to you."

  "I'm getting strong so I can move out of this house," I said, tired and hot and wanting to needle her. Chablis suddenly started an excited bark.

  "Uh-oh." Jitty pointed to the door. "Company, and you'd better hide the dog."

  I scooped up Chablis and made a dash up the stairs just as the doorbell rang. I'd barely cleared the landing before the pounding began. Tiny little fists once again. Tinkie Bellcase Richmond was back on my porch. Was it possible that she'd figured out I had Chablis?

  On the way down the stairs, I steeled my nerves and checked my watch. It was eleven-twenty. Tinkie had gotten the note.

  Tinkie's state of panic was so high that she failed to notice my outfit or even my sweat as she sailed through the door, wailing. "They've kidnapped Chablis."

  Guilt was my gut reaction, but I overcame it and substituted fake concern. "Oh, my goodness, sit down," I said, ushering her to the overstuffed wing chair that had been my grandmother's favorite. I put her feet up on the ottoman and handed her a cardboard fan from O'Keefe's Funeral Home. The room was cold as a tomb, but Tinkie's face was bright pink. Tears had stained her silk jacket, and for a moment I was sincerely sorry for what I'd done.

  "Oscar is insisting that we won't pay the ransom. He says he's going to call the police."

  My emotions were getting a better workout than anything my body had attained from the video. Remorse was bulldozed by fear. I'd taken care with the note, but the police, even in Zinnia, were a lot smarter than they used to be.

  "What note? Tell me from the beginning," I prompted. I caught sight of Jitty sitting at the top of the stairs. She held her finger to her lip to warn me. Like I was stupid enough to tell Tinkie that the ghost who'd masterminded the doggie abduction was watching us?

  "Chablis went out last night to eliminate, and she disappeared. I was heartsick all night, but Oscar assured me she'd just found a little doggie friend and that she'd be home today." Tinkie's face collapsed, mouth widening and cheekbones scrunching into her brow. A sob issued forth. "Someone cruel and evil and mean has stolen my baby. And they want money."

  I cleared my throat. "How much?"

  Tinkie gasped, "Five thousand."

  I swallowed, trying hard to hang on to my nerve. "That's not such a large amount."

  It was the wrong thing to say. Tinkie wailed again. "Oscar says he won't pay that for a dog!"

  Once when I was playing in the woods by the river I stepped into what we called quicksand. The sensation of sinking, of going slowly deeper and deeper into muck, was one of the most terrifying experiences I'd ever had. Well, deja vu! Only this time I was going down in my own little private cesspool of black despair. Oscar, who'd never had an original thought in his life, was going to be a tight-ass about five grand! He blew that on a round of golf with his buddies.

  "Oscar won't pay?" I croaked.

  " 'Not one red cent,' he says." Tinkie turned her swollen face to me. "He says he won't be blackmailed, and besides, he hates Chablis. He was delighted that she's gone. You've got to help me."

  It was karma. I deserved this. Every second of it. I'd hidden my financial troubles from the Daddy's Girls and almost everyone else in Zinnia. Now, Tinkie had come to me for a loan. Pride goeth before a fall—and I was busted. "Tinkie, I don't have a penny to my name."

  "I don't want money," Tinkie said, eyes widening.

  "What then?"

  "I have my own money. I'm not completely stupid; I knew better than to put myself at the mercy of a man, so I've been socking away money in my own private account. Money isn't an issue." She reached out and touched my knee. "I want you to make the delivery. When they send me the instructions, I want you to take the money and rescue poor little Chablis. You're so brave, Sarah Booth, going all these years without marrying, living out here in this big old house all alone, hoarding your independence and all. You can do this. I'd just have a heart attack and die right on the spot."

  Karma was a tricky beast. Somewhere along the line I'd earned a break. "Of course I'll do it, Tinkie," I said, reaching over and gently patting her knee.

  "There's a special hell for hypocrites." This time it was my mother's voice badgering me, but she wasn't a ghost and she wasn't talking from the grave. This was all in my head. Surely, I'd doomed myself to the hottest regions of Hades by stealing a friend's dog and then playing the brave and daring rescuer. But what the hell? Five grand was five grand, and Chablis and Tinkie wouldn't be permanentl
y damaged by my little scheme.

  I slipped into my faded jeans and black leather jacket and got my car keys. I'd already sent the second note, setting the drop place and dictating the terms, which didn't make a hill of beans since I was playing both roles in this little drama.

  "Be good," I murmured into the cute little tufts of hair on Chablis's head. I was going to miss the damn dog. I hadn't realized how lonesome I was in that big, old house until I had little Chablis to keep me company. I would suffer when she was gone. It was a kind of justice.

  I hurried out of the house and drove to Tinkie's to get the loot. She met me at the end of the drive, money in a paper sack, per the instructions I'd written.

  "Don't let them hurt her." Tinkie blinked back tears.

  Guilt made me twitch, but I took the money. "I won't let anything happen to Chablis," I promised.

  In a moment, I was riding free in the night. I drove back to Dahlia House, dropped the money, and picked up the dog.

  All the way back to Hilltop I cuddled Chablis in my jacket and felt the pain of the coming good-bye. I hadn't expected the fur-ball to win my heart in two nights. Maybe Aunt LouLane and her cats and I had more in common than I wanted to admit.

  My headlights picked up Tinkie's car—she was waiting at the Sweetheart Cafe just as I'd instructed. Well, she was actually pacing beside her car. When she recognized the Roadster, her face lit up with enough kilowatts to send a power surge through Zinnia. She ran toward me, and when she didn't see the dog, her face fell—until I pulled Chablis out of my jacket.

  "My precious."

  I never had a chance to say good-bye. Chablis was swept into her arms, and I was left with the cold cash and an empty place in my heart.

  "Thank you, Sarah Booth. Thank you," she said, leaning down to the car window. "I've never known anyone as brave as you. You brought my darling little baby home."

  Shame is a peculiar emotion. I blinked back tears, which Tinkie took for compassion. So she had married for money and security and she frittered away her days in idle spending and gossip. She still thought the best of me when I deserved it the least. If the money had been in the car, I would have been tempted to give it back.