"Loose spark plug wire," he said.
"What do I owe you?" I pulled my checkbook out of my purse.
"Nothing." He tilted his head. "I don't mean to scare you, Sarah Booth, but it looked as if someone wiggled that wire off there deliberately. You had any prowlers out around your house?"
"Only the repo man," I answered with a smile.
"I heard you were having some financial difficulties," he said. "I'm sorry to hear of your troubles."
"That doesn't mean I can't pay for car service," I told him, a little embarrassed that he wasn't charging me out of charity. This was almost more than I could bear after my morning with Hamilton.
"There's no charge, because I simply pushed the plug back into place." He picked up one of the pink cloths that always hang from the back of a mechanic's pocket. "Go on and have a good day. I hope your luck turns," he said. "I know what it's like to be in a tight spot."
I had a couple of options open to me, but neither of them held any appeal. I could go see Isaac Carter at the Zinnia International Export office. Carter's family owned the cotton gin for Sunflower County, and he had developed himself as the broker for cotton and other goods.
The idea of confronting Carter after our powwow in the cornfield didn't strike me as a lot of fun. So the other possibility was to go to Friars Point. The private mental institution called Glen Oaks was north of Zinnia, up toward Memphis in a small, scenic little river town near the Helena, Arkansas, bridge. I could get there by three with time enough to get back at dark, or just after.
I didn't mind talking with a crazy woman. Most of my family had been crazy women, so it wouldn't be a hardship. What I did mind was the idea of what would happen when Hamilton found out I'd been to see his sister.
He would be pissed.
Too bad.
The Mississippi Delta is extraordinary land. Black topsoil stretches flat into the distance, so vast and so fertile it's hard to recognize it as part of the poorest state in the Union.
As I drove through the winter fields, I saw the efforts hard work had begotten. My land had once looked this way—neat rows, fences up, combines working the land. And it would again. The land demanded it. It was a sin to allow such fecundity to lie fallow.
With that reminder of my heritage, I hardened my resolve to do this thing for Tinkie. Hamilton had made me feel bad about myself, but there was nothing shameful in wanting to know the truth. How else could Tinkie make a decision that would affect the rest of her life? There was nothing wrong with my work as a PI. It was Hamilton's misfortune that events pointed the finger of guilt at him. And if he was innocent of wrongdoing, then surely he would thank me for confirming it for the world. Or at least Zinnia.
I left the flat fields behind me and headed toward the levee that signaled that the Mississippi River wasn't far away. Friars Point was on the river, but protected by the giant levee built after the 1927 flood that struck the Delta with relentless devastation.
I made good time and I was eager to discover if Sylvia Garrett would actually see me. She had no reason to. Then again, I didn't think she had a busload of visitors. Perhaps curiosity and loneliness would work in my favor.
I pulled into a Double Quick, filled the tank, bought a Coke and some peanuts, and got directions to the mental institution. The woman behind the counter was extremely cheerful about Glen Oaks and assured me that everyone in Coahoma County was delighted to have the hundred-bed facility—"for folks who're havin' a little trouble adjustin' to the real world"—in their community.
"Everybody's a little crazy some time," she reassured me.
She was a big, rawboned woman with blond frizz and black roots, but she had the prettiest set of teeth I'd seen outside of Hollywood. Her big gray eyes were nicely set in her head, and there were laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. I liked her, and poured some peanuts in my Coke, prepared to chat. I'd been alone with my thoughts too long, and Ina Welford, as she introduced herself with a firm handshake, was a delight.
"My uncle Tip was half a bubble off," she said, lighting up a cigarette and taking a sip of strong black coffee. "We loved him, but he could be a handful when he decided that the Arkansans were coming across the river and trying to steal our land." She chuckled. "I spent many a night camping on the river standing guard. It was easier to pacify him than it was to fight about it."
I had a terrible longing to have known a family that camped out on the riverbank to accommodate a crazy old man's fantasy. "What happened to your uncle?" I asked.
"Oh, he drowned one night. He saw a log floating down the river and he was sure there was an Arkansas man attached to it, so he jumped in the river and took off after it."
"Couldn't he swim?"
"Like a fish, but it was flood stage and one of the currents got him. Or else another log or some trash in the river bumped him in the head. It was dark, and we weren't ever certain what really happened. We found his body downriver, hung up in the top of a tree. His eyes and mouth were wide open, like he was still searching for something."
"That's terrible."
"Naw, not really. Think how he coulda died in a hospital or locked up somewhere. He loved the river and he died on her. Just hope that you get to die somewhere you love."
There was no arguing with those words. "Thanks for the story," I said, starting out the door.
"Hey, have a good time out at Glen Oaks. Just check your backseat before you leave. The patients sorta come and go. Like this weekend, one escaped and they didn't round her up until Sunday night. I heard she'd gotten over to the Delta and was in the middle of a cornfield in her nightgown."
Tammy believed in sixth senses, and I wasn't about to deny that they existed as goose bumps marched over my arms. "Do you know who it was?"
"Not by name. She's been there awhile. Lollie—she's my cousin by marriage and she works there as a nurse's aide—anyway, Lollie said she was some rich woman who'd been there a long time. Nearly twenty years."
Now I was sure who she was talking about.
"Hey, you look a little pale, are you okay?"
"I'm fine." I drained the Coke and left the bottle on the counter. "Thanks again."
I took the directions Ina had written down and found myself at the mental institution in less than fifteen minutes. Based on this latest information, I wondered if I stood a prayer of getting to see Sylvia Garrett. What was troubling was that she'd made her escape on the very weekend that Delo Wiley had been killed. And Delo had been murdered in the exact same spot her father had died.
18
A wise woman would probably have turned the car around and headed home, but I wasn't about to give up. If I was going to get to see Sylvia, though, I had to come up with a good story, and certainly not anything about a book. I looked down at my wardrobe and considered. I was the right age to be a cousin, so I decided to try that angle.
I walked into the building with a big smile and all the confidence of a Daddy's Girl. I headed to the main desk where I introduced myself as Sarah Booth Mason, a second cousin of Sylvia Garrett.
"You're not on the list of approved visitors," the nurse said, eyeing me suspiciously.
"I'm from New Orleans," I said. "I haven't been in the Delta in years, but while I'm here, I want to visit Cousin Sylvia. I promised my mama I'd be sure and stop by and see her. We all feel so guilty that we don't get up to visit more often. You know how it is, though, with kids and jobs and all." I smiled my Daddy's Girl conspiracy smile to let her know that though I was born into a life of privilege I was no better off than she was.
The nurse nodded knowingly. "My aunt Martha has been ill in Greenwood and I can't seem to make it to see her. She raised me when I was little." She picked up a chart. "It says here that I'm supposed to call the doctor before I let anyone see Miss Garrett."
"Honey, I don't have but ten minutes. I'm on my way to Memphis. I know Cousin Syl had a rough weekend, slippin' out and all. I just want to say hi. What could it hurt? If she doesn't remember me, then there'
s no harm done. If she does, it might make her feel better."
"She has been something of a problem lately," the nurse said, checking the clock on the wall. "She came back from her little adventure covered from head to toe in mud. She must have made a horrible mess in that big, fancy car when they brought her back." She studied the chart.
"She came back on her own?"
"She did. Got dropped off at the gate. Okay, you can have fifteen minutes. It might help her, poor thing."
I followed the nurse down the corridor wondering how long it would be before I was a "poor thing." That's a classification of unmarried females which negates whether a woman is single by choice or not. A woman could have been the first female to the moon, or have invented the cure for cancer, but if she doesn't marry, she will end up being a "poor thing."
"Does Cousin Syl get many visitors?"
"More than usual lately." She stopped. "Here's her room."
When the nurse pushed open the door, I walked into a lovely suite that could have been part of an English estate. The woman sitting at a delicate antique desk had a sheaf of white-blond hair that hung down below her waist. Rich, luminous hair that seemed to radiate its own light.
"Miss Garrett," the nurse said, her voice holding a degree of respect. "You have a visitor." Sylvia turned to face us.
What I noticed first was that Sylvia Garrett's silver eyes fixed on me and pinned me like a butterfly to a corkboard. She shared her brother's directness, but there the resemblance ended. Her face was completely unlined, her skin opalescent and beautiful, framed by the mass of straight, incredible hair. She was a study in moonlight, a woman of alabaster.
"Cousin Sylvia," I said, recovering and stepping forward. "Do you remember me? Sarah Booth?"
Her smile was sly. "Of course I do, Sarah Booth, come in and sit down."
I looked at the nurse, who nodded. "Just a few minutes," she agreed. "Don't get her upset."
The door closed behind me. "Did Hamilton send you to convince me to behave?" Sylvia asked, motioning me into the room.
"No." Although I was raised not to stare, I couldn't help myself. She was beautiful. Her darker eyebrows and eyelashes contrasted with her delicate, flawless skin.
"People do find me interesting to look at," she said, not at all perturbed by my rudeness.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled and looked down at the floor, which was covered in an expensive hand-woven carpet. On the bedside table was a fresh bouquet of birds-of-paradise, the purple-and-orange blooms exquisite in a globe of blue that seemed to glow with the afternoon light.
She noticed my interest. "The vase was a gift from my father," she said. "At Knob Hill there's a sculpture."
"The pink lady," I said, immediately remembering the fascinating work.
"Yes." She nodded at a collection of breathtaking colored bottles in a glass bookcase and I thought of Tammy. These had to be the bottles she once dusted with such concern. "Beautiful, aren't they." She went to the case and picked one out, fondling it carefully.
For a moment she stared out the window at the manicured grounds. "Do you know how long a day can be here?" she asked. "Some days are like years, and those are the good ones. Others last for decades. But prisons come in all shapes and degrees of luxury. A room, a continent, a dark corner of the mind."
I looked at the shelves of books and music. Someone had tried to make her prison as palatable as possible, but she was right; it was still a prison, even if she'd volunteered to stay.
She seemed to reassess me. "Who are you and what do you want?"
"Information. About the past."
Her hand on the arm of her chair trembled, but her fingers grasped the carved wood. "I've been here nineteen years. Why the sudden interest in the past?"
"I was thirteen when your father was killed."
"And that explains nothing," she answered. "I was seventeen. Away at school. My father's body had already been prepared for burial by the time I was told of his death. My mother had decided everything. Even how she was going to sell Knob Hill and move." She moved to a seat facing me.
Sylvia's anger seemed alive in the room. I wondered what would happen if she were turned loose. "What do you want to know?" she asked, eyes wary and alert.
My time was short, and she didn't seem the type to suffer a fool. "Do you know who killed your father?"
She leaned back in the chair and slowly relaxed her hands. "My version of the truth is somewhat suspect. Haven't you heard? I'm insane."
I couldn't tell if she was mocking herself or me. "I'm willing to take a risk on your version."
She was so still. "I don't know," she said. "I was at school. Mother was careful. Oh, so careful. She had friends, male friends, but they came and went. They danced and laughed and played cards." She leaned forward, a blush on her ivory cheeks. "There was never a hint of such dark passions. It was all so socially acceptable." Her smile turned bitter. "But there was someone. And she knew that I knew. I told her so. And I told her I would find out. I told her that I would never rest until I made her pay for what she'd done. And that was my mistake. I warned her."
She rose from her chair so suddenly that I pressed back in mine. My reaction made her laugh. "You're smart to be afraid of me. There's no telling what I might do." She walked to a desk in the corner of the room and I was taken with the way she moved. She had the grace of a dancer, the body of a woman who worked at keeping fit. And that sheaf of blond hair swung around her hips. She was thirty-six. Nineteen years must have been an eternity. "Ask something else."
"What were you doing at Delo's?"
"Looking for buried treasure. There's half a million buried somewhere in Delo's fields." She faced me and smiled. It was chilling to witness. "Everyone's hunting for it. Haven't you heard?"
"Treasure?" Was this some Gilligan's Island fantasy? It was an act of pure insanity to go out to a cornfield on a freezing November night, unless there was a mighty good reason. "Where would Delo get half a million dollars?"
"It wasn't Delo's. It was payoff money. Meant for my father."
I didn't follow. "Your father was in a dove field to get a bribe?"
She gave me a long look of contempt that chilled me to the bone. "My father couldn't be bought. What is it you really want?"
"You know Delo's dead."
One eyebrow lifted. "And you wonder if I might have killed him."
"Did you?"
"The gun they will have found beside the body is mine. A Remington. A gift from my mother when I was twelve. She had my initials engraved on a brass plate. She thought hunting would be good for me. Or maybe she hoped I'd shoot myself." She picked up the bottle she'd held before, lifting it to the light so that it seemed to glow. "I'm allowed a few harmless indulgences here. One of them is collecting. I bought this only last month from an auction in California. Amazing what items come onto the market. People get in financial situations and they're forced to part with valued possessions. Acts of desperation." She came to me and put it in my hand. "Lovely, isn't it?"
"Yes." It was exquisite, but her train of thought shifted faster than the Orient Express. I believed she was crazy.
"Give this to my brother. Tell him that the pits of hell are opening and the bones are crawling from the cold, damp earth. Vengeance is neither swift nor just, but inexorable." Her eyes glittered. "Tell him the waiting is over, for both of us."
The drive home was a blur. I played an old Arlo Guthrie tape and sang along, remembering my mother, who knew all the words. Even when the songs began to repeat themselves, I kept driving and singing. The beautiful glass bottle was on the seat beside me, but I didn't look at it. I didn't want to think, because there was no good place my thoughts could go. By the time I turned off the old highway and started down the drive to Dahlia House, night had fallen, and once again I regretted that I had not left a light on. Sylvia Garrett had spooked me.
I was interested in Hamilton. Very interested. In a way that had brought turmoil and grief into my life. I did not wa
nt to believe that he had deliberately plotted to kill his mother. But Sylvia had left me with some mighty big doubts where Hamilton the Fifth was concerned. Had he left her institutionalized for nineteen years to take his rap? Or was she the murderess? Of her mother and Delo?
If she wasn't at the scene of Delo's murder, then she had been in the vicinity, digging in the mud. After nineteen years, she made a break for freedom on the weekend Delo was shot. The timing was suspicious, to say the least.
I parked beneath the big magnolia tree and quickly pulled the tarp over the car. My first order of business in the morning was going to be to pay a few back notes on the Roadster. I had the cash now, thanks to Tinkie.
The night was cold and I shivered. Dahlia House was a huge square of blackness, and I hoped Jitty was waiting for me in the kitchen.
As I started around to the back with Sylvia's bottle in hand, I saw movement on the front porch. Remembering Hamilton's earlier visit, my impulse was to run inside and lock the door. But it might be Harold, waiting for me. I headed that way.
"Home at last," came the sultry tones of Kincaid Maxwell. "I was beginning to think you'd skipped town and left all your debts for poor old Harold to settle. Interesting bauble. Where did you get it?"
"A, I'm capable of settling my own debts, and B, none of your business," I informed her, overcoming my shock at her visit. Kincaid wouldn't normally waste her social hours on the likes of me. This had to be a business call, and since there were no witnesses to this exchange, I had a feeling that the gloves were going to come off. In a way, it was the best thing that could have happened to me. I'd had a rough day, and there was no one I'd rather dump on than Kincaid.
"Is that why Harold Erkwell sent me a check for your lunch at the charity ball?"
"Probably Harold sent it because he's a gentleman, and a generous one at that," I replied, wanting nothing more than to wring Harold's neck. There was no way he could have anticipated the repercussions of his act, but nonetheless . . .
"They're all generous, until you marry them," Kincaid said.
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