"Whatever it takes, do it."
"Sarah Booth! You aren't married to him."
"This is a tough business, Tinkie. Sometimes a private investigator has to lay it on the line." The tactics she used on her husband were up to her. "I'll call you after lunch. Right now I've got to go."
My next call was to Cece, who wanted me to photograph the New Year's Eve bash at The Club.
"Kincaid was going to have it, dahling, but after that awful country theme party when she pulled the costume bit at the very last minute, no one wanted her to host the biggest party of the season. Then Angela Rhee Finch said she and Boyd would be delighted to have it at their country home. Very elegant, you know. But Boyd said absolutely, positively never. He's afraid someone might get drunk, have a wreck on the way home, and sue him. Only Boyd would think of that. Probably because he's considered doing it to someone."
Cece was in rare form, already moving on from Lawrence's funeral to the next big story. I'd begun to see her emotional hardness as the coping mechanism reporters had to learn. They couldn't afford to linger in a tragedy. It might dull their lust for the facts.
"I have a small complication," I said, thinking of Joseph Grace's disappearance.
"You couldn't possibly have a date," she continued. She wasn't being malicious, but it still stung.
"No date," I admitted.
"Good, dahling. One can't focus on work when one is focused on a man. I know."
"Right." Even if I drove over to Oxford, I could be back in plenty of time for New Year's Eve. And working for Cece as a photographer was a lot more appealing than singing "Auld Lang Syne" with Jitty and Sweetie Pie. "I've got to do some running about this afternoon, but I'll make the party."
"No problem, stop by the office."
"Do you have the photographs from the wake?"
"Right on my desk. Dahling, you sound awfully rushed. Is something going on?"
"I'll tell you when I see you," I promised, once again cutting off the connection.
Dr. Matthews was easier. I told him I'd be there in fifteen minutes, and he said he'd call the sheriff to meet us. The next call I made was to Tilda Grace.
I let the phone ring twelve times before I accepted that she wasn't going to answer. Or couldn't.
I headed out to the vet's office with a sense of dread. Coleman was already there when I arrived. The look he shot me let me know he was angry, but I followed him and the veterinarian into the back, hoping the cat's body wasn't going to be our focal point. I was in luck. We went into an empty exam room, and Dr. Matthews closed the door.
"As I told both of you, the cat was poisoned," he said. "A dose of Coumadin. There's no way to tell if it was accidental or deliberate."
"I'd like a copy of the lab reports." Coleman cut his eyes at me as if he expected some statement. I bit my lip in Tinkie fashion, showing what I hoped was wide-eyed innocence.
Oblivious to the undercurrent, Dr. Matthews nodded, easing one hip up on the edge of an exam table. "Lawrence loved those cats like his children. I hope you find out who did this."
"I hope so, too," Coleman said, giving me another look. "Thanks, Dr. Matthews." His hand clamped around my arm, and he escorted me out into the parking lot.
"Hey," I said, trying to shake him loose.
"You can talk to me now or you can talk to me through the bars of a cell," he said, maneuvering me toward the patrol car.
"What?" I tried for innocence but found it hard to reach. Coleman was not a fool, and he wasn't buying my dumb brunette routine.
"That bag of rat poison. Where did you find it?" His blue eyes narrowed. "I just want to hear you say it, Sarah Booth."
"In Lawrence's pantry."
"You violated a crime scene." He reached toward the back of his belt, and I thought he was going for the cuffs. Instead he pulled a notebook out of his pocket. He studied a page for a moment, then he looked at me again. "I searched that cottage. There was no poison there."
"I didn't see it either when Willem and I searched. I found it when I went back to get Apollo. Lillian Sparks asked me to pick the cat up and deliver him to her."
My response mollified him somewhat because he flipped the notebook shut and put that hand on his hip. "I probably shouldn't tell you this, but I matched the prints on the bag."
Instead of arresting me, he was going to give me information. My eyebrows rose in anticipation. "Whose?"
He stared directly into my eyes, and my opinion of Coleman rose another notch. He was determining how much to tell me, evaluating how much I could be trusted. I suddenly felt a rush of anxiety. Those prints belonged to someone I knew. "Tell me," I said, this time not bothering to hide the dread I felt. "It's someone I care about, isn't it?"
"Do you know where Harold Erkwell might be?"
The implication was more than clear. "Not Harold."
My reaction was instant and sincere. I wasn't defending Harold because I liked him. He simply wasn't a murderer. Out of the darker regions of my brain I suddenly heard Willem's parting shot about the whereabouts of the manuscript and Harold. I knew I should tell Coleman, but I had no proof, only Willem's accusation.
"Harold's and another set."
"Brianna?" I breathed the name. She'd finally done it. She'd pulled him down the rat hole with her.
His mouth tightened as if he thought about refusing to answer. "Not Brianna. But she and Harold are both missing. I'll ask again—do you know their whereabouts? And this time, Sarah Booth, I won't sit still for your interfering."
Coleman was a fair man, and one with a slow temper. A fool could see that I'd lit the fuse. "Tinkie just told me Harold had gone on a vacation. She's supposed to find out from her husband where he went."
"And you'll call me right away?" His hand was still on my arm, and he made me aware of it.
"I can't believe Harold would have anything to do with hurting Lawrence. Or anyone else." But he might protect someone he cared about.
"Money is a great motivator. Folks will do a lot of things you wouldn't expect." His fingers gentled on my arm. "In a lot of ways, Sarah Booth, you're pretty naive. I think it works for you in some instances. Not this time, though. Whoever is behind this has killed once already. Don't think they won't do it again, and let me just be frank and say that you can aggravate a person to the point of wanting to do something rash."
I ignored his insult because I recognized the seed of truth in it. "Who did the other set of prints belong to?"
Once again his mouth drew into a thin line. "You're going to like this even less."
"What do you mean?"
"The second prints belong to Rosalyn Bell."
Once, when I was about five, my parents took me to the beach at Gulf Shores, Alabama. Wading out into the water with my father, we were caught by an unexpectedly big wave. The water crashed over me in a dizzying whirl. My hand slipped from my father's grip, and for one horrifying instant, I felt the primal force of the water grab hold of me. I felt that same sensation as I stared into Coleman's eyes.
"Easy there," he said, and this time his hand on my arm was as sure and steady as my father's had been when he pulled me from the frothing water. "Take a breath."
I did and felt better—and a little ashamed of my weakness. A private investigator doesn't get lightheaded. "I'm okay." I looked down at my shoes, noting the toes needed a good polish. Jitty was right. I looked like a derelict.
"Sure," he said, but he didn't let me go. "When you hear from Tinkie, you call me," he said, his hand sliding down my arm until the contact was broken. "I want a promise."
"I'll call," I said, and meant it. "There's something I should tell you." Coleman had been more than forthcoming. I was, after all, a woman of honor. If he was going to share with me, I owed him. "If there's someone in the sheriff's office over at Oxford, you might want to check and see if a missing person report has been filed on Joseph Grace, the dean of Arts and Sciences at Ole Miss. His wife left me a message saying he'd disappeared. She sounded upset,
and to be honest, I had him figured as a possible suspect in Lawrence's murder."
"Would you mind telling me why?"
There was no condescension in Coleman's tone, so I told him everything I'd learned on my trip to the senator's house and to Moon Lake. And my suspicions of Grace's role in the academic politics of Lawrence's past. I told him everything except about Willem's unexpected visit.
"Would it do any good if I asked you to go home and stay there?" His fingers strayed to the handle of his gun.
"Rosalyn paid me—" I halted. "Damn, I've got to find that check. I can't remember where I put my coat."
Amusement touched his mouth. "Tinkie might make you a good business partner," he said. "I'll bet Oscar taught her how to account for every penny."
I needed his humor, and I knew that he was trying hard to ease me over the shock I'd suffered. He'd also put my mind on another issue. "So, you've heard about Tinkie?"
"It's all over town," he said. "Folks at Millie's Cafe were buzzing. It's not every day that two society women decide to become sleuths."
"I'm not a society woman," I protested.
"Ex," he amended. "Though you always were a little different than the others." He finally gave me a full grin. "That's a compliment, Sarah Booth."
"Thanks, I think." But my mind was on the case. "What are you going to do about Harold?" I was finally able to look that fact straight in the face. "And Madame?"
"I'm on my way to pick up Rosalyn and bring her in for questioning."
"Coleman ..." I stopped because I didn't know what I wanted to say. "Are you sure?"
"They matched the prints on the wineglasses you brought in. Unless you made a mistake . . ."
I'd been careful, snatching the glasses and then marking the base with lipstick before I turned them over to Tinkie. I didn't say anything. I didn't have to, he read my face.
"Maybe there's a good explanation," he said slowly. "The only way to find out is to ask."
"Madame will have a good explanation." This was spoken more for myself than Coleman.
"I'm sure she will," he said, no longer meeting my gaze. "Tell me, Sarah Booth, what exactly is Harold's relationship with Brianna Rathbone?"
I couldn't tell if he wasn't looking at me because he'd heard of my interest in Harold and was trying to spare me, or if he was concealing his own thoughts. "I believe they're involved. Romantically." I said it as if it didn't bother me.
"So you wouldn't be concerned that she's disappeared at the same time that he's gone on vacation?"
I wanted to take his face in my hands and force him to look at me, but I restrained myself. "The only thing odd about it is the timing. Harold has to execute Lawrence's estate, and with all of this business about ..." I faded to a stop. "Are you saying I should be concerned about Harold? That maybe Brianna has done something to him?"
"I was thinking more along the lines that Harold may have taken Brianna. Possibly against her inclination to go."
"That's ridiculous!" The words jumped out of my mouth. "No one makes Brianna Rathbone do a damn thing she doesn't want."
He shook his head. "I'll tell you a secret. I don't care for Ms. Rathbone and all of her haughty ways worth a damn. But an old man is dead, and the evidence points to the fact that someone killed him. I intend to bring that someone to justice."
I sighed. "I never expected anything less of you." Coleman was a man who'd learned balance, in his handling of others and in his treatment of himself. It was a lesson I needed to absorb.
"I'll check on the dean. And I'll keep an open mind." He walked around his car, got in, and drove away.
23
The pale sunlight of a perfect winter day struck the white trunks of the bare sycamore trees that lined the drive to Dahlia House as I headed home at top speed. Nine o'clock—the day was getting away from me.
I left the Roadster in front of the steps and dashed upstairs, jumping a sleeping Sweetie on the way. She lifted her head and gave me a mournful look from bloodshot eyes and then collapsed back into her doggy stupor.
"Don't expect me to feel sorry for you," I called over my shoulder as I cleared the final step. "If you weren't out all night carousing, you wouldn't be tired." I realized suddenly that Sweetie Pie was leading the life Denise LaSalle, the dynamic blueswoman, advocated. Sweetie was loving the one she was with—again and again, and changing partners at fifteen-minute intervals.
Stepping over the clothes I'd left on my bedroom floor, I went to my closet. "Where is that darn jacket?" I slid all of my clothes to one end of the rail and began the laborious process of looking for the black wool coat I'd worn to what I'd anticipated as a charming brunch with Lawrence Ambrose. I remembered tucking Rosalyn's check into the coat pocket.
Since my former dance teacher was now being interrogated as a suspect in Lawrence's murder, I decided my role in the case had shifted. Now, instead of trying to prove Brianna guilty, I was going to focus on proving Madame innocent. And Harold to boot. Whatever he'd done in an attempt to protect her, it was under Brianna's influence. Harold was not the first dumb man to fall under her seductive spell. Somehow, I would save them both.
Madame needed her money for a lawyer. The little bungalow where she lived in a residential section of town pointed to the fact that money was not something she had to throw around. I still had enough cash from my first case to pay the bills for a few months. Madame was a fixture from my past, a woman whose rigid adherence to routine and practice had been a lifeline to a young girl who lost her parents. How amazing that I saw with such clarity that Madame's demands, her relentless harping on perfection, was her method of being kind to me. Though I had no real talent, she'd continued to work with me, pressing ever harder until that forced concentration became a place of safety.
I went through my clothes in one direction, sliding each hanger over the metal rod, then reversing the order. The coat had to be there.
"Lack of organization is a sign of sloth," came the dark voice from behind me.
I didn't slow down or turn around. Since Jitty's closets were in some ghostly beyond, I had no way to examine them and compare. "Help me hunt or get out," I said.
"My, my. Sounds to me like you need a Calgon bath."
Out of the corner of my eye I saw her step over the suede suit I'd earlier discarded, shaking her head at my messiness.
"That's one thing I like about you, Sarah Booth. You put your own personal style on a room. I'd call this boudoir pigsty. Yes sir, any man would find this an enticin' little love nest, if he didn't break his neck tryin' to get to the bed."
"Jitty," I warned. "I'm not in the mood."
"What, exactly, are you lookin' for?" she asked.
I described the coat as I began my third pass through the closet. The coat wasn't there, but I wasn't giving up.
"Honey, wear that cute suede outfit if you're goin' back out. It does wonders for your eyes. 'Course you've already walked on it this mornin'."
"I need the coat." The last hanger slid over the metal pipe. The closet didn't contain the black wool, and it wasn't going to appear no matter how desperately I searched. "Damn it all to hell."
"Cussin' is the sign of a weak vocabulary," Jitty said archly.
It was exactly what Aunt LouLane would have said, and in exactly the same tone. Suddenly it struck me as funny. Jitty and LouLane weren't what I'd normally consider a team. But since Jitty's decision to join the conservative fifties, she was acting more and more like my dead aunt.
"I'll bet I could teach you some cuss words that would improve your vocabulary," I said, finding satisfaction in needling Jitty. There was a closet downstairs where I sometimes hung my coats. I signaled her to follow.
"It's not that I don't know those words. I choose not to use them. And so should you," Jitty said in her best prim tone as she followed on my heels.
Sorry that I'd started a lecture by teasing Jitty, I stepped over Sweetie and went to the closet under the stairs.
"What's so important about tha
t coat anyway?" she asked.
"Ten grand." That would get her attention. "There's a check in the pocket."
"Let me help," she said, moving up to my elbow.
The closet yielded no secrets, and no black wool coat. The damn thing had disappeared. I remembered wearing it to Lawrence's house. I'd come home, changed clothes, and gone out to play with Sweetie. Then Willem had driven up. Unless the handsome artist had a fetish for women's coats, it had to be somewhere in the house.
"Exactly what kind of detective are you that you can't find your own coat?" Jitty asked.
"One who's sick of being gigged by an uppity ghost." I closed the closet door. The coat was gone, and I had no more time to search for it at this particular moment. Tilda Grace was the woman I needed to see, and since she wasn't answering the phone, that meant I had a drive ahead of me.
I went to give Sweetie a goodbye pat and discovered as her pillow one of my fabulous high heels that I'd bought at Steppin' Out. "Sweetie," I admonished. "You've got to stop stealing my shoes."
"Maybe if you picked your things up off the floor, the dog wouldn't have to play maid," Jitty said.
Car keys in hand, I ignored her. She was stuck in the groove of nag. "Think about what I should wear to the New Year's bash," I told her. "I want to make an impression."
"You gone do that, goin' without a date."
"Men have always gone to parties stag. They're considered playing the field. Women have the same right. Maybe I'll meet someone interesting."
"Like that Felix guy. The convicted felon who changed his name. He was real interestin', as I recall." Jitty had me there. I'd made a few dating faux pas.
"Just think about what I can wear." All the Daddy's Girls would already have rushed out for a new dress, but I had my entire New York wardrobe of secondhand fashions that no one in Zinnia had ever seen. Nothing like wearing the remnants of a past life to ring in a new one. "Think festive," I ordered as I opened the front door, determined to track down Tilda Grace.
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