Harold Erkwell appeared at my side, a striking figure in a black wool suit that emphasized his salt-and-pepper hair. "Stunning dress, Sarah Booth," he said, hands on my bare shoulders. "Luscious."
"Lush-us," Brianna said, mouthing the word with her collagen-plumped lips. "Another ten pounds, Sarah Booth, and you'll qualify as dumpling cute." She walked away and only Harold's hands on my shoulders saved her.
"I'm going to tear her throat out," I said sweetly.
"Too messy," Harold said, turning me in the opposite direction and giving me a gentle push.
"I didn't know you'd be here," I said, instantly realizing that he belonged here much more than I did. Harold was a huge supporter of the arts—in literature, visual, music, and drama. It was perfectly logical that he'd be among Lawrence's friends.
"I'm here to keep an eye on Lawrence. He's up to something." Worry furrowed his brow.
"What's going on?" I asked.
Before he could reply he was captured by Lillian Sparks and her campaign to outfit the first New Year's baby born in Sunflower County with a year's supply of cotton diapers. Homegrown cotton, of course.
The party swept over me and I found myself talking to a New York literary agent and a handsome actor who was hoping for his Hollywood break. Both were busy looking beyond me for a better connection. We were joined by a short, posturing man who enjoyed name-dropping and commandeering conversations. I thought at first his name was Dean, realizing only later that it was his title, which he'd soldered onto his identity by ceaseless repetition.
"Of course Joyce was never a social man," Dean Joseph Grace droned. "I once had lunch with William Burroughs, and it occurred to me that there were similarities between Joyce and Burroughs that no one had ever before connected. I thought instantly what a wonderful thesis that would make for some young scholar at the university. That's the problem these days, our students have no originality. No spark of creativity."
There was no doubt that he referred to the University of Mississippi, or Ole Miss, the Sacred Hunting Ground for Daddy's Girls to find suitable mates. I could have informed him that there was plenty of originality among the students when it came to snaring the suitable mate.
"You've read both Burroughs and Joyce?" His narrow brown gaze pinned me as a possible troglodyte.
"Who hasn't?" I replied gamely. To my horror the agent and actor fled, obviously better at self-preservation than I was.
Rescue arrived not a moment too soon. Madame Rosalyn Bell, former prima ballerina and Nazi dance mistress, took my arm. "Pull your shoulders back. It makes your breasts perky," she said. "There's someone I want you to meet."
I didn't want to imagine who that might be. So far the guest list, with the exception of Harold and Mrs. Sparks, seemed pretentious and fed on malice.
"Come along, dear. He's outside, smoking. Cultural thing, you know."
Before I could protest, her tiny fingers dug deeply into my arm and she pushed me out into the cold night. "Are you really a private investigator?" she said as she pulled me to face her, just as she'd done in dance class twenty years before.
"I've concluded one—"
"No prevarication, Sarah Booth. Either you are or aren't."
"I am." One thing about Madame—she didn't allow for waffling.
"You have a sharp eye for people. You must, if you're in the PI business. What do you make of Brianna's desire to write Lawrence's life story?"
Brianna had also been one of Rosalyn's students. She'd been a beautiful dancer with a superior attitude and the habit of never letting Madame forget that she was her employee. I had a vivid memory of the petite dance mistress lifting her hand to slap Brianna's face for an especially cruel remark she'd made to one of the chubbier girls in the dance class. But something had restrained Madame. She'd lowered her hand and walked away.
"I never knew Brianna had an interest in writing. She certainly never did in high school."
"You're hedging again, Sarah Booth. An unattractive habit I would have thought you'd outgrow. Brianna isn't interested in writing, she's interested in recapturing the limelight. Any. Way. She. Can."
The emphasis was clear, and the hair on the back of my neck quivered. Rosalyn was so tense she was almost vibrating. "Writing a book doesn't seem all that glamorous," I said, hoping to calm her.
"Lawrence has the goods on half the well-known writers alive today. During his Paris years, he knew everyone who was anyone. There are some secrets better left in the past, Sarah Booth. Some damaging secrets. Brianna is hunting for those secrets. Lawrence won't believe it, but she's been snooping in his house, plundering through his things. I've caught her twice. If she finds— The past is never dead. Lawrence doesn't realize how damaging, or how dangerous, it can be."
I remembered Lawrence's broad hints. Brianna would enjoy nothing better than digging up dirt on others and watching them twist in the wind. Still, I had doubts that Brianna would have the discipline to finish a book even if she started. Writing required solitude, and Brianna never liked her own company—for obvious reasons. "I wouldn't worry too much. I doubt Brianna can write anything, much less a book. Even if by some miracle she finished, it probably won't get published." That conclusion gave me a jolt of satisfaction.
"Layton Rathbone will buy his daughter a publishing company if that's what it takes," Rosalyn insisted. "Or at least that's what Lawrence believes. He thinks he's going to use Brianna, but there's one small problem. No one uses a Rathbone and gets away with it."
The sound of deep, sensual laughter was a perfect contrast to the chill of Rosalyn's words. We both turned our heads. I saw him standing at the edge of the light, a striking silhouette against the backyard torches—a tall man, slender, in an Italian-cut suit that emphasized his long torso and legs, lean hips, and broad shoulders. When he turned, I stopped dead in my tracks. Light from a dozen blazing lanterns caught in his golden blond curls, intensifying his hazel eyes.
Rosalyn moved toward him, leading me beside her. "Willem Arquillo, this is the woman I promised to introduce you to. Sarah Booth Delaney, Senor Arquillo."
He came toward me with two long strides, his hand capturing mine. He lifted it, then turned it over and bent back my fingers lightly to expose the palm. Very deliberately he kissed it. In the cold Delta night, his lips were very, very warm.
"You're even more beautiful than Rosalyn told me," he said. He continued to hold my hand as he turned to Madame Bell. "Exquisite," he whispered.
"I saw your paintings in Memphis," I said, beginning to see real value in cultivating artsy-fartsy acquaintances. Aside from the fact that he was a magnificent painter, combining primitive images with controversial politics, he was gorgeous. Lawrence had said an artist would be at dinner, but he hadn't said which artist. "What brings you to Zinnia?" I'd heard gossip, from Cece, naturally, that he was working to establish a trade partnership between Mississippi and Nicaragua— both Third World countries, as he so aptly put it. But that type of negotiation would take place in Jackson, the state capital, not little ol' Zinnia.
"Business and pleasure," he said smoothly. "Lawrence and I have some unfinished business. We've been friends for a long time."
Willem's melodious voice made my spine tingle. "I understand Lawrence collects art. Does he have some of your paintings?"
His gaze was sharp, but his voice was as warm as a caress. "Probably more than he realizes. But I'm bored talking about myself. I hear you're a writer. Are you helping Lawrence with his big project, his grand revelation of his life? He tells me he's going to zoom to the top of the best-seller list. I wonder how many bones will crack beneath his shoes."
The back door opened before I could ask him what he meant or answer his pointed question. Brianna stepped into the night. "So this is where you've stashed Willem," she said. "I should have known if there was a single man, Sarah Booth would have him out in the dark."
Before I could say a word, Willem cut in. "You flatter me, Brianna, but I came outside to have a cigarette. No
w I must excuse myself. Lawrence promised to give me a brief education on the Southern baroque era."
He gave my hand a suggestive squeeze before he let it go. Moving with complete poise, he took Madame's arm. Brianna and I were left in the yard that was suddenly much colder.
"Too bad he's interested in Southern baroque," I said to Brianna. "If he liked Southern slut, he might want to talk to you." I headed for the back door, knowing that the battle lines were now clear. We'd each drawn blood.
Just as I reached for the door, it opened and a tall, slender man stepped into the night. He was backlit, his features hidden. "Sarah Booth," he said warmly, taking my hand and patting it. "How nice to see you. It's been years. I'm looking for my daughter."
He turned so that the light fell across his face. "Mr. Rathbone," I said in surprise. "I didn't know you were in Zinnia." Layton Rathbone and his wife seldom came home. He had extensive business holdings in Europe. Word around town was that Pamela Rathbone had gotten too good for her roots and preferred the rarefied air of "The Continent." It was beyond me how a man as nice as Layton had married Pamela and spawned Brianna.
"Just a pop-in visit to see my little girl." He patted my hand and dropped it. "Publishing is a new game for her. It always concerns a father when his baby takes on a new challenge, especially if you have a daughter like Brianna."
Layton Rathbone was a business genius, turning soybeans into gold, but when it came to his daughter, he was putty—to be molded by her every whim. Still, it wasn't up to me to point out that the idea of Brianna writing anything was laughable.
"My girl's out here somewhere, I believe," he said, looking beyond me into the shadows.
"Ummm," I said. "It was good to see you." And I darted into the house. I found a wall and eased around the cottage, scoping out the other attendees while admiring Lawrence's home—a place filled with art and objects of fancy. Every square inch of wall was hung with a sketch or painting. Books were everywhere, jammed in glass cases that also held sculptures and figurines, a mixture of fine and gaudy. A waiter took my empty wineglass and handed me a full one. I sampled a tray of hors d'oeuvres, delighting in the unexpected surprise of steamed collards stuffed with ground pork and pine nuts. Excellent.
Cece had arrived in a white dress that was simply dazzling: sleek, slinky, and sophisticated. I gave her a thumbs-up from across the room and indicated I wanted to talk to her when she had a moment. She'd have the lowdown on every guest. She was snared immediately by Dean Joseph Grace. He stood eye-to-nipple, continually smoothing back his silver-streaked dark hair as he talked.
Within seconds, their conversation grew heated. They both glanced across the room at Lawrence before they set to at each other again. To my surprise, Grace poked Cece in the chest with his little finger. Face red with anger, Cece drew back a fist, halted as if frozen, then abruptly walked away.
I was getting ready to check on Cece when I heard Madame's voice, raised high, from a corner of the room. She was arguing with a tall man whose silvery hair was badly in need of a cut.
Madame was clearly furious. She had to crane her neck to look at the tall man, and her expression was one of tight hatred. Even as I considered intervening, a hand on my arm pulled me up short.
"Sarah Booth, I need to speak with you."
Harold's gaze was intense, but there was the hint of amusement in his eyes. I felt a throb in my left thumb, the one Harold had suggestively sucked one cold November night in the magically lighted driveway of his home.
"Can we meet?" he asked.
"When?" I glanced over at Madame, whose face was beet-red. Lawrence had joined the group and was waving his hands, actually stepping between Madame and the tall man. Brianna and her father had also walked up. Layton held Brianna's shoulders, and I saw that he was no longer the dashing forty-year-old I remembered from my childhood. But he still looked good. Damn Brianna, she even had genetic advantages.
"Tomorrow is Christmas," Harold said. "Have dinner with me. I'm cooking a tur-duck-en. It's a turkey stuffed with duck and hen. Seven o'clock," he said. "I'm even making sugarplums."
"Fine," I agreed, anxious to see what vile thing Brianna was doing to Madame. In our little outdoor tete-a-tete, Madame had actually given me something to worry about. To my knowledge, Brianna had never written a word. But she did give interviews—to tabloids. And in them she took obvious pleasure in dissecting her past lovers. There was a cruel streak in her a mile wide, and if Lawrence was foolish enough to reveal secrets to her, she'd delight in telling them.
"Shall I pick you up?" Harold asked.
I surprised myself with the sudden anticipation I felt. "That would be wonderful, Harold. Now I have to check on something."
"Private eye business?" he asked, a worried gaze straying toward the arguing group. "Madame's upset. This whole book idea worries me. Lawrence's behavior worries me."
"I'll try and find out what's happening," I hedged, not wanting to admit to anything.
"You'll have to give me all the details tomorrow evening."
"We'll trade," I promised, slinking toward the arguing group until I was in eavesdropping position.
"Lawrence, tell them they can't do it," Madame was saying. She placed her tiny hand on Lawrence's shoulder. "Please. You promised me that the book would be about the Paris years. There's no point in going back to our youth."
"Cinematically speaking, the Delta era was the formative time for his character," the thin man said, nostrils flaring wide. "Those years must be included in the movie. As will the war years. Of course there may be cuts, but I will decide when and what to delete. Brianna has assured me that I will have complete artistic control. I demand that." His gaze seemed to dare Madame to resist.
Brianna clasped her hands in front of her hungry hipbones. She didn't need food; she fed on the suffering of others. "I've worked my tail off to get Sam to even consider this project, Lawrence. Gustav is expecting a movie deal. Don't be difficult."
"Artistic control isn't the same as good judgment," Lawrence said with the most reasonable tone I'd ever heard in the face of such bullying. "To stretch the story so long will only be tedious to the reader, or the audience, in the case of a movie. It's the heart of the story that deserves attention. Ramone Gilliard knew this instinctively. Look at his work."
"Gilliard is a pauper who couldn't get backing to make a film if he had a script written by God," the thin man replied. "And let me remind you, Lawrence, that you're far from a salable commodity. It's Brianna's name on the book and my reputation as a filmmaker that will pull this off. And so we don't have to have this conversation again, remember that in your day, when film was unsophisticated, there were restraints. We have cinemagraphic techniques, Lawrence." He patted the author's shoulder. "Leave it to the professionals. Now I need to freshen my drink." He walked away as if he were a captain who just dismissed his troops. Brianna was right on his heels.
"Lawrence," Madame said, her whispery voice shaking. "What have you done? What did you tell Brianna? Surely you remember we agreed that the past—"
"It's okay. Rosalyn, dahling, you know how those people are." He put a hand on her small waist. "Don't worry for a moment. I'm totally in charge." He took Madame's arm but it was Layton Rathbone he looked at. Brianna's father was standing beside a piano. He turned away abruptly and went after Brianna.
Lawrence's gaze swept the room and stopped on me. "Look, Rosalyn, you've caught the attention of our budding author."
"Is something wrong?" It would have been pointless to pretend I wasn't eavesdropping.
"A trifle," Lawrence said. "But how wonderful to see you, dahling. Red is your color. I made a very special treat for you. Stuffed okra. Let me help you with a plate. These modern women today, too thin. When I was in France working with Deneuve, we almost had to force the child to eat. Of course the director loved that ethereal look, those huge eyes. But I was always more of a Gina Lollobrigida fan. Rubens was right! A woman, not a twig. Fashion is so fickle, my dear."
"Oh, a Hollywood type. Sam Rayburn. We want to bring out a movie simultaneously with the book. A big splash. That's the way it's done these days, or so I've been told."
I almost stumbled as the name hit me. "The Sam Rayburn? Producer of Marilyn Goes Blonde!" It was the blockbuster conspiracy movie about Marilyn Monroe and her alleged murder with the use of Thorazine suppositories.
"Brianna assures me that he isn't an impostor. Very touchy breed. But don't take anything he says too seriously. Hollywood, dahling. Interest is like heat lightning, gone before you're even sure you saw it."
"What exactly will your biography cover?" I asked.
"Now if I told you, there would be no suspense. Look around. Everyone here wants to know what I'm including in my book. Tell me something, Sarah Booth. What's the most important element in writing?" he asked.
I realized he was talking to me as if I were actually writing a book. Now my lie would snap me on the butt. Still, I had to make a stab at it. "In nonfiction, the truth would be important. In fiction, I suppose it would be in creating a believable story."
"Dean Grace, our authority on everything, would give you an A for that answer."
"And you?" I was curious to hear his answer.
"Think a little harder. Why would I be motivated to publish my life history now?" He didn't wait for me to guess. "Revenge, malice, money. Or possibly truth." He let that sink in. "Good fiction is life laid bare, the actual emotional truth. Nonfiction is the illusion of truth. In nonfiction, detail is boiled down to a fine syrup. Truth is no longer a raw substance but a by-product of a process. The individual telling the story determines the process based on his own particular pathology. Right?"
I nodded, captivated by him and what he was saying.
"This by-product, labeled truth, has many uses. To sweeten, to flavor, to soothe, to tempt. To extract revenge." He waved an elegant hand around the room in a grand gesture. "They're all concerned what my truth will be." He laughed. "After two decades of being forgotten, it's wonderful to again feel the power of commanding attention." He selected a pickled mushroom and held it to my lips. "And for all of this fun, remember to savor the tiny pleasures, Sarah Booth. They're the only ones that truly count. Excuse me." He stepped back slightly and announced that dinner was served.
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