"Sperm, Jitty. You can say the word." I didn't like this new fifties modesty. Jitty had always been a ghost who called a spade a spade.
"If you'd tried a little harder, you might have conceived."
"What do you suggest? That I should have done it standing on my head? Or is that considered immoral in the land where Father Knows Best!"
"Have a drink of water," she said. "Your face is red and your eyes are 'bout to pop out of your head."
"Could it be that I'm angry?" My pulse throbbed at my temple.
She snorted. "Sarcasm is lost on me. And it's very unladylike. You want to get you a man, you gone have to give up actin' like a harpy."
"Hamilton didn't stick around long enough to see my harpy side."
She sat down on the chair arm, kicked off a shoe, and began to massage her foot. "If you'd gotten pregnant, Hamilton would have come back to Zinnia."
I was stunned. "You mean I might have trapped him into marrying me?"
She continued to rub her foot, unable, or unwilling, to look me in the eyes. "Lots of marriages start off that way. What difference does it make if you bait the trap with sex or home cookin' or a child?"
I waited until she brought her gaze up to mine. "I don't want a man I have to trap."
"Don't be a fool," she answered, a hint of the seventies Jitty showing through in the way she flounced to her feet, ignoring the fact that she had on only one shoe. "Men don't think of marriage on their own. None of them. Women got to put the idea in their heads. And if you'd hung on to that sperm, a baby would have been one unavoidable idea."
"Jitty," I warned.
"Make a doctor's appointment. Maybe there's a kink in some of your tubes. 'Course there's no rush. It'll probably be another five years before you slide out of your panties again."
"Jitty!" She'd gone too far. I couldn't tell if I was madder at the implication that I couldn't get laid or the prediction that I wouldn't. Truth be told, Hamilton's return to Europe had done more damage to my heart than I wanted to admit.
"I was thinkin' about pot roast for dinner," she said in an abrupt change of tactics. "You keep eatin' that fruitcake, you gone be too big to attract anybody 'cept one of those Shelby pig farmers. Now those boys 'predate a woman with some poundage."
I saw her flicker, then begin to fade. It was just like her to start an argument and then disappear. "You come right back here," I ordered, even as the last trace of her form disappeared. "Jitty!"
"Answer the door," she said, her voice only a sigh in the room.
The chiming of the doorbell pulled me up short. It was Friday evening, the last weekend before Christmas. Who could possibly be at the door? Not Cece, the society editor of the local newspaper and my sometimes employer. It was deadline for her Sunday section. And not Tammy. Zinnia's local psychic was spending the weekend visiting her granddaughter, little Dahlia, over near Mound Bayou.
Harold Erkwell?
My thumb gave a little tingle at the thought of the distinguished banker who'd offered me a rock and a marriage—both rejected in haste. Was it possible I was still carrying some kind of torch for Harold? If not a torch, perhaps a Bic?
"Sarah Booth, yoo-hoo?" The bell chimed again, and there was a harsh rap on the door.
I hurried out of the parlor and into the foyer, noticing with a certain satisfaction the tinsel wreath I'd hung on the bust of Stonewall Jackson that had been in my father's family for almost as long as Jitty. Jackson was a hard-looking man—perhaps not hard but determined.
The glittering red wreath gave him a holiday air. Hah! Despite Jitty's cruel words, I did have a certain flair for decorating.
The bell rang again, this time with vehemence. The pounding was staccato and solid. A cane? I didn't know a soul who used a cane. I slipped to the window door and very carefully eased the lace sheer back. Two bright blue eyes, enlarged by black-rimmed spectacles and topped with a shock of snow-white hair, stared directly into mine. I didn't recognize the man at all.
"Open up, dah-ling, I'm here on official monkey business."
I did as he ordered and found myself face-to-face with an older man who'd escaped most of the trappings of age—he was spry. He made a courtly bow, sweeping low to the floor.
"Let me introduce myself. Lawrence Ambrose, a very dear friend of your parents. Your mother in particular. I adored her. She was every inch a real lady."
I was stunned. All of my life I'd heard about Lawrence Ambrose, the Mississippian who'd taken the Parisian world of letters by storm. He was also an artist and playwright and a host of other things. I'd known that Ambrose lived in Zinnia, a recluse on the Caldwells' large estate, but I'd never anticipated meeting him in the flesh.
"Please, come in," I managed.
"I do believe there's a bit of the monkey in you, my dear," Lawrence said, offering his arm to me. "There's not a Zodiac sign for the monkey, but there should be. Somewhere between the scorpion and the goat, don't you think? What sign are you?"
Leaning only slightly on his cane, he escorted me inside.
In the parlor, Lawrence Ambrose settled into the club chair beside the fire and pointed at my Christmas decorations with his cane. "Lovely, dahling. Very SoHo, fifties. Andy Warhol would have absolutely coveted such a creation. That was before he became a caricature of himself, you know. At one point . . ." He lowered the cane and I saw his hand tremble before it closed tightly over the horse's head. He was too pale. "It's a sign of age when the past seems to dominate one's conversation. Forgive me."
He seemed so genuinely taken aback that I had to think of a change of subject. Food was always good. "Would you care for some coffee? And fruitcake?" If he ate it, I might be able to fit into my pants tomorrow.
"Fruitcake?" he asked, two shaggy white eyebrows arching. "None of that hideous store-bought gomm that they pass off as fruitcake?"
Though he was still pale, he'd bounced back. "No," I assured him, even more impressed that he knew the difference. "Homemade. From a secret family recipe."
"Dahling, there's nothing better in the world than a secret family recipe. Except for an afternoon in Italy with a skilled lover."
His reply stopped me dead in my tracks.
"You'd be surprised which Zinnians have indulged in such decadence," he added, eyes a wicked blue. "It's the most interesting thing, how something so wonderful at the time can end up being the source of such anxiety. I've lately become quite the expert on secret anxieties. And secrets in general." His smile was pure delight.
"I'll get us some. Coffee and fruitcake," I said, excusing myself and heading into the kitchen. Lawrence Ambrose intrigued me, but he'd also caught me completely off guard. What in the world was the writer doing at my house now? My mother had adored him.
She had collected signed copies of all of his work. She even had a photograph of him as Rita Hayworth's escort at the Academy Awards. Mother had loved his writing.
Years back, there had been rumors about his parties—bacchanalia with Maypole dances, original plays acted out in elaborate costumes on the lawn. There was even a story that he'd hung and burned an effigy of one of Mississippi's more infamous governors, Cliff Finch, and ended up in a fistfight with Zinnia's volunteer fire marshal. That was before he'd become something of a recluse. But he didn't seem at all reclusive. Just another example of how rumors spread in a small town.
I waited for the coffee to perk, pondering why he'd come visiting me. When the tray was prepared, I hurried back to the parlor with it. Lawrence accepted his coffee and cake with the ease of a man comfortable in a parlor.
"No doubt you're wondering why I'm here. It's a rather long story, and boring, as most long stories are. And naturally, it involves money. And secrets."
He was a verbal tease, hinting and dangling little tidbits. But he did it with such style and humor that I found myself intrigued rather than annoyed. "I love secrets," I said. "Generally they pay well."
"Ah-ha, I knew you were part monkey. Clever little thing. Facts first and then se
crets. My last books were financial failures. No publisher will touch my work. They say my numbers are down and no one remembers or cares about what I used to be."
He took a bite of cake. "Heavenly, Sarah Booth. Who would have thought a pigtailed hellion would grow up to bake such divine fruitcake." Hardly taking a breath he continued. "I've now decided to publish my memoirs. Would you have a bit of brandy to liven up the coffee? Caffeine is bad for your liver, my child. Brandy counteracts the acids."
At first I'd thought Lawrence had reached the age where rambling and conversational rabbit trails were unavoidable, but his blue eyes belied such a judgment. He was in expert control of his faculties and the conversation. "Certainly," I said as I found the proper decanter and splashed a good dollop into his cup.
"Finding new talent is one of my greatest pleasures. I'm having a small gathering at my home Christmas Eve," he said. "There'll be some writers, publishers, a few movie people, an artist, and the usual suspects in the Sunflower County literati. Since you're writing a book, I thought you might enjoy the gathering."
"But I'm not—" I stopped my confession. The lie that I was writing a book had launched my career as a private investigator. As my mother once told me, sometimes it's too late for the truth. Besides, the party sounded interesting, especially based on Lawrence's past history of fetes. "It sounds lovely," I said.
"I'm reintroducing my biographer to her native soil. I believe you know her. Brianna Rathbone." Lawrence stamped his cane on the floor. "A dazzling young woman. She's been living in New York, but has now returned to the Delta to work on my book. My memoirs. This will signal a new era for me. Brianna is an international celebrity, yet Southern. I think the combination of my story and her celebrity status will push this book right to the top of the best-seller list. You remember her, don't you?"
The thwack of the cane combined with Brianna's name was like tiny little jolts of electricity in the reptilian lobe of my brain. I had the strongest urge to coil and strike.
"Yes." The word was a croak. My reptilian lobe was still in control. I remembered her perfectly. "I didn't realize Brianna had an interest in writing," I said, floundering for something to say. "She's a model. A jet-setter. One of the beautiful people."
"Brianna, as a former model and jet-setter, is the perfect person to add that zest to my story." Lawrence arched his eyebrows. "Don't you agree?"
"Can Brianna write?" I asked before I could stop myself. A better question would have been if she could read.
"I'm not in need of eloquence," Lawrence said. He sat taller in his chair. "The truth of the matter is that my light has faded. What I need is a biographer who can regenerate that spark. Like it or not, the world lusts for celebrity, not art. Miss Rathbone has been on the cover of Vogue. She's dating Gustav Brecht, the publishing magnate. She has the elan to capture the public's attention. She has a reputation."
No doubt about the reputation part. She'd slept with half the men in New York. And now she was dating a publisher. Was that a good thing? Brianna had always reminded me of a black widow. Mate-eater. Or at least maimer. I could see the benefits of a biographer who was in bed with the publisher, but what would happen when she gnawed off his leg? But I held my tongue.
"Can I expect you for dinner?" Lawrence asked.
As fascinating as the evening sounded, I'd rather spend an hour in a snake pit than sit through dinner with Brianna Rathbone. I was on the verge of declining when he pulled another directional shift in the conversation.
"I have two reasons for having this dinner, Sarah Booth. I found my favorite cat, Rasmus, dead yesterday. He was twenty years old. He must have died of old age. He loved my entertainments and would frequently perform kitty yoga on top of the guests. My only regret is that I didn't have one sooner, for him, but I'm having one now in his honor."
There was a hint of sudden desperation and sadness in Lawrence's voice that tugged on my heartstrings. He shivered then, even though he still wore his coat and the fire was hot. I had the sinking feeling that he was masterfully playing me, but I didn't have the heart to resist him. I got up and added another log to the fire. "What's the other reason?" I asked.
His eyebrows rose and the glitter in his blue eyes was both mischief and excitement. "Secrets. The second reason is that everyone there will have a secret. And I know them all."
"What time is dinner?" I asked, caught up in his spirit of devilment. Secrets were, indeed, good fun.
"I told everyone six, which means they'll arrive at seven because they all want to make a grand entrance. Seven would be lovely. Bring your opera glasses, dahling, the peacocks will be parading." The eyebrows rose slowly and held. "I intend to make them stampede. It will be great fun."
"It sounds wonderful, but why are you inviting me?" I had to ask.
"To bear witness, darling. You're the perfect choice—a writer and a detective."
2
"Leave it up," Jitty said, standing behind me as I poked a jeweled hair comb into my unruly mop of brown curls. I liked the casual elegance of the upswept do, but I was afraid it wouldn't withstand the rigors of the evening.
"It feels . . . unsecured."
"You're worried about hair? Take a look at your chest."
Jitty was opposed to the red-glitter cocktail dress that I'd bought at a tony little shop in Memphis during a shopping spree with Cece. True to her word, Cece Dee Falcon had provided entertainment during the trip—a nonstop babble of gossip and factoids she ferreted out and catalogued in her newspaper work. She also tossed out expert fashion advice. But trying on clothes with Cece was an experience I hadn't bargained for. More often than not, I forgot that Cece had once been a man. Long gone was the lanky, twitchy high school boy Cecil Falcon. In his place, an elegant, sexy, and very feminine woman emerged thanks to a talented team of Swedish surgeons. A cramped dressing room was an interesting place to play before-and-after.
Even as I fastened a diamond locket around my throat, I reassessed my image. Cece, with her lean hips and angular collarbone, could wear anything. But she was truly expert in dressing others, too. My dress was Parisian cool. Low-cut in front and daringly backless. The style did a lot to emphasize my decolletage, more defined since my fruitcake binge. Play your assets, my mother always said. My makeup was subtle, emphasizing the green of my eyes.
Jitty stepped back from me. "Honey, those fruitcakes are gangin' up on your waistline and looks like they're preparin' to claim squatter's rights."
Where I'd discarded binding bras and underwire, she was girded, girdled, heart-crossed, and granny-panted against even the tiniest jiggle. God forbid that she might be able to draw a deep breath. A little oxygen to her brain might allow her to think for herself.
"There's nothing in the detective handbooks that says I can't be plump," I offered, anticipating the explosion.
"Girl, you better pull yourself together! You talkin' like an old maid."
"I am an old maid," I reminded her. "But I have a good personality and I can make my own clothes," I added, to ward off the sting.
"Just keep makin' jokes," Jitty said. "Life has a way of followin' after the words we cast out in front of us."
Her philosophical statement caused a small cavalry of goose bumps to gallop up my arm. "Don't wait up," I said, picking up my purse and keys. I took off down the stairs and into the night.
It was perfect weather for a Christmas Eve bash. The barren cotton fields were coated in frost, a tundra of silvery white that reached into the dark blue and star-spangled Delta sky. Though the night was clear, snow was predicted. I remembered a long-ago white Christmas. Dahlia House, decorated like a storybook home, had seemed to be a place where only happiness could live. I was four.
Still, a blanket of cold, white stuff would soften even the heart of a cynic. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. I kept the mantra going so that I wouldn't think about what was missing from the evening—a date—as I drove to the party.
Lawrence Ambrose lived in a cottage on Magnolia Pl
ace, one of the few estates that still functioned as a producing cotton plantation. The Vardaman Caldwells owned the property, but they traveled extensively and were often out of the country. Set back from the main house about half a mile, the spacious guest cottage was a perfect location for a writer, elegant and secluded— far enough from the main road not to draw attention should Lawrence decided to engage in one of his famous parties.
The drive was lined with live oaks. Huge and gnarled, they were probably two hundred years old. I pulled into a parking space beside a number of nice autos, and one silver Porsche, probably belonging to Brianna, since it was just like her—fast and high-maintenance.
The chatter of the party spilled out onto the wide gallery where several cats reclined in rocking chairs. Bottles of opened wine and clean glasses were on small tables beside huge brass planters filled with fresh spices. I recognized basil, dill, and rosemary. There were dozens of other plants I knew but couldn't name.
I helped myself to a glass of merlot, stroked a friendly yellow tabby, and listened to the melange of voices within. Brianna's throaty laugh was hard to miss.
Ah, Brianna.
I opened the door and she was the first person I saw. Honeyed blond hair to her shoulders, black sheath, sharp hipbones—hungry. A walk like a caged panther, headed directly at me. For a few seconds I was back in tenth grade, staring at the perfect face that would grace magazine covers around the world.
"Sarah Booth Delaney," she said, coming forward to take my hand. "I never dreamed I'd see you here."
Interpretation—what's someone like you doing among these star-kissed people? Her tone made it clear that I didn't belong.
"Lawrence is interested in my book," I said. The lie rolled off my tongue like quicksilver. "He thinks I have talent."
"Amazing. But then, isn't everyone convinced that their pathetic little lives are of interest?" She flicked her hair over her shoulder. "I had no idea you could write."
"It's a skill I acquired in high school, while you were busy on your knees soliciting an A from the—"
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