"That was your mistake, Kincaid. Not mine." A little salt in an open wound is always refreshing.
"That's true, I don't have to come to parties dressed like a slut to get attention," she parried.
I was getting a little tired of the banter. "What do you want? Say it and then leave."
"I hear you're good at finding out things."
If I had not been leaning on the porch railing I would have fallen into the azalea bushes. "What?"
"Don't play dumb with me. My money's as good as Tinkie's."
I wanted to strangle Tinkie more than Harold. "What kind of things do you want found out?" It would be quicker just to listen to her. I pushed open the front door. A week ago I'd been ashamed of the state of Dahlia House. I wouldn't have wanted a Daddy's Girl inside. But I'd changed. "Come on in, Kincaid. I'll pour us a glass of moonshine."
"That sounds divine," she answered, trotting in behind me.
I carefully placed Sylvia's bottle on the sideboard by the decanter. When I snapped on a lamp, the little bottle glowed with life, and I couldn't stop myself from thinking about Hamilton. I now had a reason to see him again.
"Sarah Booth?" Kincaid said, almost at my elbow.
I divided the last of the moonshine. I also lit a fire with some of the wood Harold had carried in for me. In five minutes the room had taken on a pleasant glow.
"This is strictly confidential," Kincaid began.
I wondered if she was stupid or desperate. "What do you want?"
"It's a delicate matter." She stared into the moonshine but failed to continue.
She was obviously getting cold feet. "Man or money?" I asked. There were no matters more delicate for a Daddy's Girl.
"Both," she said and pressed her lips together.
It occurred to me then that she was afraid. Kincaid, who got the tennis pro first, who always had the newest car, who wore the sexiest clothes and then called others sluts.
I would like to say that her situation didn't give me pleasure, but I'd lied enough in the past week. I was having a good time. "Tell me about it," I said smoothly.
"It's Chas. If he finds out about the money—"
I waved her to silence. "From the beginning," I ordered.
"My God, it is such a mess," she whispered and then belted back all of the liquor. She regained a little Kincaid hauteur and met my gaze. "You've got to go out to Delo Wiley's house and find the check I gave him yesterday morning before he was killed. He didn't have time to cash it, being Sunday and all. If Chas gets wind of this, he'll—why, he'll divorce me."
19
It was my turn to knock back the rest of the moonshine, and I steadied myself against the mantel. There was the tinkling sound of Jitty's bracelets, but I knew Kincaid would assume it was a wind chime caught in the blustery north wind. After a deep breath, I excused myself and went down to the cellar to hunt for more whiskey. This night required libations. I also needed a moment to think. Kincaid's revelation had opened the door on a lot of questions, and though she was worried about a missing check, I saw potential for a murder charge. Kincaid, sheltered her entire life, obviously had not thought of this.
Among the jars of jam and syrup, I recognized another of the dark brown bottles Uncle Lyle had preferred for his liquor, saying that too much sunlight took the bite out of good whiskey. I pulled it out, blew the dust off, and headed upstairs.
Kincaid asked no questions; she simply held out her glass. Her hand was trembling. I poured us both a goodly measure and then took a seat. "The most obvious question is, why were you giving Delo money?" I said in a cool, flat voice.
"Tinkie said you could keep a secret."
I considered pointing out to her that if Deputy Gordon Walters discovered a check from her to Delo, the questions would be very public and very ugly. Gordon didn't have an appreciation for the delicate treatment needed by a Daddy's Girl. "If you want me to help, you have to tell me the facts."
"Then you'll sneak in there and get the check? I'm sure it's somewhere in his old shack."
"I haven't committed to any course of action." She was still Kincaid, perfectly willing to risk my neck to solve her problem. "What was the money for?"
Kincaid put her drink down and clasped her hands. She seemed to be struggling with herself. When she spoke, she didn't look at me. "I was renting one of his camps from him."
Kincaid didn't hunt, and she wasn't the rustic type. Roughing it, to her, meant leaving the nanny behind. Which meant she was meeting someone in the cabin for some mattress maneuvers. "I see."
"Delo knew how to keep his mouth shut," she said.
"Did it ever occur to you that a check wasn't exactly a brilliant way to pay Delo?"
She ran her fingers through her hair. "I didn't normally pay him. It was an emergency. I got a call Sunday morning and was told that Delo needed the money right then. The, uh, other party couldn't make it, so I had to."
I didn't actually have to know her accomplice's name, but I wanted to. It was a rare luxury to have Kincaid on the ropes. "Who usually pays?"
"The man," she said. "You remember that much, at least, don't you?" The sarcasm was back.
"Does this man have a name?"
"Yes," she answered, "I call him Mr. Sat-is-fac-tion."
"I can only hope he was worth it," I pointed out to her. I could see that she still didn't get the big picture. "Chew on this, Kincaid. You were probably the last person, other than the murderer, to see Delo alive. He knew things about you that you'd prefer to keep secret. Now the way I understand law enforcement, they look for someone with means, opportunity, and motive." My brick-by-brick approach to the facts was having an effect. Kincaid had gone deathly pale. "I see you as the number one suspect in Delo's murder."
"This can't be happening," she whispered, and her hand shook so hard I reached over and took the glass from her fingers. No point sloshing out perfectly good whiskey.
"It is happening," I said. I had another little time bomb to drop, but I didn't want her to faint. When she reached for the whiskey and took another sip, I nodded. A little liquid courage. "There's also the possibility that whoever you've been meeting at Delo's set you up for his murder."
The swallow of liquor got caught in her throat and I thought I'd have to use the Heimlich maneuver, but she got her breath and stood up. She began pacing in front of the fire. "He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't," she said, but it was clear she wasn't talking to me.
"Did Delo call and say he wanted the money?" I asked.
"No." She stopped and froze. "No, it was . . . him. And Delo acted a little surprised when I showed up with the check."
Betrayal is hard to watch, even when it's so deserved. I led Kincaid to her chair and eased her back into it. She took the whiskey and drank again.
"Who were you meeting?" I asked.
"This can't be real," she said, and her eyes searched mine for some sign that I was in on the joke.
"Who?" I asked.
"My God," she whispered. "You know Chas is absolutely going to kill me."
"Who?" I asked with a snap.
"Isaac Carter."
I dreamed of fields covered in corn stubble. The stalks had been chopped and broken, and dead leaves and tassels rattled in the wind. I was hiding among the debris, listening to the sounds of the hunters' boots crunching toward me. Their laughter seemed to expand in the early morning sun, golden notes hanging in the wind.
They had come to kill. They would pull the trigger two times, quickly, buckshot scattering in an ever-widening pattern. It was a morning of recreation to them, small deaths that registered only as amusement.
Hidden in the dry husks, I felt the ground seep blood, and I darted into the air.
"There she is! Shoot her!" I was flying hard, but I looked over my shoulder and into the green eyes of Hamilton Garrett the Fifth. He stood among a cluster of men, all with shotguns to their shoulders. I heard the roar of the guns and felt the air around me shudder with the shock of the blasts.
&nbs
p; I woke up gasping for air. The sheets were soaked with sweat, and the bedside clock showed two in the morning. I had kicked away the covers, and though I was sweating, I was freezing. I hurried into the bathroom and lit the space heater that had become dear to my heart. In a matter of moments I was holding my nightgown over the heater, catching the hot drafts of air in the folds of the gown.
"Mary Margaret Allen caught her gown on fire and burned to death two years ago doin' that exact same thing. They said she flared like a human torch, runnin' through the house and screamin'." Jitty appeared sitting on the side of the tub.
"It was a tragedy," I agreed. After my dream, I would have been pleasant to Satan if he had stopped to converse. I was not ready to go back to bed.
"You'd sleep better if you got laid. Call Harold. I'll bet he'd be over here before you could hang up the phone." At the mention of Harold, my thumb pulsed wickedly. I captured one last gust of hot air in my gown and ran back to the bed, jumping under the quilts.
"You've been reading too many back issues of Cosmopolitan. You're talking mighty trashy," I said, to cover my own confusion.
"I'll rephrase it. You need the release of—now how does that book call it? Sexual climax," she said, grinning. "I read some of your college books."
I had a terrible thought that Jitty would get too comfortable with Sigmund Freud. I could just see them both, in the parlor, deciding what was best for me, and I certainly didn't want to hear about penis envy from her. "Psychology isn't a science, exactly," I reminded her.
"I don't need a book to tell me you need to work off your rough edges." She pointed to the sheet. "More wasted sweat. If you'd applied that to Harold, our future would be secure."
"I'll think on it," I said.
Jitty took a seat on the edge of the mattress, and in the glow from the alarm clock she looked slightly ashy.
"Are you okay?" I asked. I had never seen her so gray and translucent.
"I'm a little tired. You a full time job, Sarah Booth. You enough to wear a ghost to a frazzle."
"Tell me about it," I answered. "Do you think Isaac Carter killed Delo?" I asked her. Since Kincaid left we hadn't actually talked, but I knew she'd been privy to the entire exchange.
"Strange that Isaac Carter keeps turnin' up in that dove field. Ever' time you turn around, he's standing there at the scene of tragedy. Maybe Delo was trying to blackmail him."
"But to kill Delo in the exact same spot as Guy Garrett. That's—"
"Sick? So? Have you considered what type of man would crawl naked between the sheets with Kincaid Maxwell? He's lucky he came out whole. Kincaid likes her meat sliced and portioned."
"Kincaid is pretty," I felt obliged to point out.
"Pretty bitchy. She doesn't strike me as the type to risk her marriage and security for the pleasure of a little thigh rubbin'. Unless she was getting somethin' in return."
"Like what?" I asked, curious about Jitty's train of thought. Kincaid had always made it clear that for her, sex was a form of barter and a means to scale the social ladder. She only screwed the tennis pro for the prestige of saying she had him first—and she got a great deal on tennis lessons.
"Like revenge."
"Against Chas?"
"Who better? He's the kind of man could make a woman's blood run cold. I don't lay claim to bein' no psychiatrist, but I'll bet life with Chas Maxwell has been about as pleasurable as summers on the Sahara."
I hadn't actually thought of Chas as a man. Not ever. He was thin, effete, and prissy. And he was the heir to the Maxwell estate and railroad holdings. He spent a great part of his day in business negotiations with Isaac Carter.
"But Carter's old enough to be Kincaid's father," I pointed out. "In fact, he and her father are friends. They play golf."
"Exactly," Jitty said, raising both eyebrows. Her skin flushed back to its full, rich color. "You got to admire the way Kincaid can pack a double whammy."
Kincaid's visit had given me bad dreams, and the ammunition to enter the glass-and-wood office of Zinnia International Export. I had not looked forward to meeting with Isaac Carter, but now it was necessary.
Kincaid wasn't my client. Not officially. I had accepted three thousand dollars, cash, as a retainer, which I told her I would hold until I made up my mind whether or not I could help her. I wasn't playing hard to get; I truly didn't want to go out to Delo's house and hunt through a dead man's things. Then again, it appeared that Delo's murder was firmly tied into the case I was already working on.
Isaac did not look happy to see me, though he allowed his secretary to send me straight back to his office. He remained seated and waved me into a chair—a faux pas, or else a deliberate move to let me know that he didn't consider me to be on the same social level as he was. I took it as the latter and put an enormous "Bite Me" smile on my face.
"You've left Kincaid in rather a bad position," I said, gratified to see that his calm quickly turned to panic. "If she gets pegged for the Delo Wiley murder, you won't walk away from this clean. I can promise you that."
"What do you want?" he asked, opening his drawer and bringing out a checkbook.
Aha! He thought I'd come to blackmail him. That would be the first thought that jumped into a Buddy Clubber's peanut-sized brain.
"I want to know what happened on the day that Hamilton Garrett the Fourth was killed," I said, glad to see that my change in conversational direction had caused him even more consternation.
"What is it with you, Sarah Booth? Why can't you leave well enough alone?"
I had an answer for him. "Call it a Delaney gift," I said. "We Delaneys have a thing about difficult paths. I suppose a search for truth after twenty years of lies could be considered one of those rock-strewn roadways."
He narrowed his eyes at me and took a breath. He was still a handsome man, though wattles—even small ones—were not something I found sexually stimulating. Still, there was snap in his gaze and tension in his lips as he returned my perusal.
"Nobility is an expensive habit," he said. "I never figured you for that kind. I always viewed you more as, shall we say, hedonistic and lazy."
"Unlike Kincaid, who is uptight and busy?" I asked. "But she is married, too, which adds a bit more spice to it. Especially for a man who never really had to risk much in business, since it was all handed to him." I didn't mind crossing swords with Isaac. Though he had been an associate of my father's, I'd never heard his name spoken with any great degree of respect.
"You're a disgrace to your family name," he said between clenched teeth.
"We can trade complimentary observations all morning, or we can get this over with," I said. "I'm not leaving until I find out a couple of things. Why was Guy Garrett in the dove field when he wasn't a hunter, and who were the two strangers that you brought to the field with you?"
"And if I tell you these things, you'll keep quiet about Kincaid?"
"You've set your mistress up for a murder rap. I'm a little curious about the reasons behind that, so I can't make any empty promises. But I will agree to destroy the tape recording Kincaid made of you requesting her to pay Delo off."
It seemed that Isaac Carter brought out the very best in me when it came to doing PI work. I had no compunction about lying to him. Au contraire! It gave me great pleasure.
"She taped me?"
The tete-a-tetes between Kincaid and Isaac were now history. I had torpedoed their trust factor. Too bad. But I had also thought of a way to save Kincaid's skin, only because I knew she hadn't killed Delo. Kincaid was not passionate enough to pull the trigger twice at a man's head. Besides, if she'd actually decided to kill someone, her husband would have been at the top of her list. Wealthy widowdom is the pinnacle of achievement for a Daddy's Girl.
My plan was to blackmail Isaac into stealing the check back, since he was the one who'd gotten Kincaid into the jam to begin with. Then I could keep the three thousand.
"When you decided to take a Daddy's Girl as your mistress, you should have been
prepared for the consequences," I told him. "We're always prepared. Always."
"The men in the field were Arthur Lowry and Aubrey Malone."
The names were not familiar. "Should I know them?"
His look spoke volumes about how I shouldn't presume to know anyone who might be anybody. I had been born a Daddy's Girl, but I was hanging on by my teeth.
"They're businessmen. From Memphis. They had come down to talk with Hamilton the Fourth about some investments. And that's also the reason he was in the dove field. It was a business meeting, and though he wasn't much of a shot, I'd talked him into going along with us. Guy sometimes gave the impression that he wasn't really a man's man."
I lifted my eyebrows for clarification.
"He wasn't gay, he just wasn't . . ."
"He didn't feel the need to express his manhood in stupid, macho ways," I supplied.
"He put people off. His only saving grace was Veronica. Now she was all woman, and that was a good reflection on him."
If I'd had time I would have given him my thoughts on women who "reflected" on their men. But as Jitty would say, I had bigger fish to fry.
"Who shot Hamilton?" I asked.
He started to stand, then didn't. "I don't know." The furrow between his brow spoke of his truthfulness. "I was down by the river with the rest of the boys. I meant to go check on Guy because I knew this wasn't his sport, but I saw him walking off with Lowry and Malone, so I hung back. It was a business meeting, as I said."
"And what was the business?" I remembered Sylvia's remark about a payoff.
He placed a hand on his chest. "Some of us men had come up with a development plan for the county. We wanted to try to push it through the Board of Supervisors before too many questions were asked."
"And Hamilton was part of this?"
"Not exactly." Isaac picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. "The plan didn't come about. After Hamilton was killed, Pasco felt we should drop it."
"Hamilton was opposed to the plan?" This was tougher than pulling teeth.
"Lowry and Malone were supposed to talk him into it."
"What was the plan?"
"It wasn't exactly a plan. It was more of a zoning thing."
Sarah Booth Delaney Page 16