I jammed the car in park and dove over the side as I went in hot pursuit of dog and shoe.
"This is it, Sweetie Pie. You're going to the gas chamber," I yelled after her as I crawled on all fours under the house. She had the height advantage on me and disappeared in the darkness. She'd gone to that nest she was building. For a dog without ovaries or a uterus, Sweetie had a real thing about preparing for puppies.
Rocks bruising my knees and cobwebs clinging to my head, I scrabbled after my dog. When I finally got to her, I reached into the darkness for my shoe. I found it—and a host of other things. It was difficult to tell in the dark, but I pulled out two more shoes, not mine, a plastic shovel, a roller skate, a wool coat, three towels, and a tin pie pan.
"This has got to end," I told her as I clutched her stash to my chest and hobbled toward the light.
It wasn't until I was outside that I recognized my black wool coat. Now I remembered hanging it on a tree limb when I was playing fetch with Sweetie. No wonder I couldn't find it. Now I wasn't certain that I wanted to. It looked pretty disreputable. Not even the cleaners were going to be able to save it. But the pockets were intact. Reaching into the left one I found Madame's check and another scrap of paper.
Walking up the steps I unfolded it, wondering where it had come from. It was a bad habit of mine to stuff things in my pockets. Usually I found them in the washing machine. Lipstick, gum, things that weren't meant to be washed.
The handwriting stopped me, a beautiful, flowing copperplate. An old school kind of writing. The first word, which was Harold's name, stopped me in my tracks. "Harold, I hate to be mysterious (actually, I love it) but this manuscript is the best I've ever written. Take care of Brianna, and be wary. Should anything happen to me, you'll be able to find the book where tears of stone fall on Brianna's past. Be sure that it's published. Many thanks, Lawrence."
"Boll weevil!" I whispered, using the curse Aunt LouLane had taught me as the vilest thing a lady could possibly say. "Boll weevil and a plague of locusts." I threw the biblical image in for emphasis.
"Is that the black coat you been lookin' for?" Jitty asked, fading in beside the front door.
"Yeah."
"You'd better give it back to Sweetie. No help for that thing now."
"No, you're right." I let the coat slide from my grip and fall on the porch.
"Girl, what's wrong with you?" Jitty put a ghostly hand on my forehead, just the slightest whisper of something cool touching my skin. "You got a fever? This is the first time you ever agreed with anything I had to say."
"How did Brianna find the manuscript?" I asked, looking at Jitty with eyes that didn't actually see her. "How did she get her mitts on it?"
"Maybe she called the psychic hotline."
I ignored Jitty and went to the phone. "Can I have some privacy. I'm about to eat crow."
"And just when you were beginning to lose some weight," she countered before she walked out of the room.
I dialed Tinkie's number. The voice that answered was throaty, a little confused. There was a loud, rhythmic noise in the background.
"Tinkie! Are you okay?"
"Oh, it's you, Sarah Booth. I was just taking a little nap." She came more awake. "Just a minute. Oscar's snoring hard enough to suck the wallpaper down. Let me get in the bathroom." There was a pause, and she came back on the line, alert and energized. "I found out where Harold is. He's gone to Memphis. Not much of a vacation, if you ask me."
"Did you have any . . . trouble getting the information?"
"Sarah Booth, can I tell you the truth?"
How much of this did I want to hear? I was already bogged down in guilt. "Sure." The least I could do was commiserate with her sacrifice.
"Oscar and I really had a good talk. I mean, not like you'd think. I sent all the help home and I made us a bite of lunch. Nothing fancy, just some BLTs and iced tea. Oscar was a little suspicious at first, but once we started talking, it was like back when we were in high school. He told me things— Never mind about that. I felt kind of bad. He didn't have a clue I was working him to find out about Harold. It never entered his brain. And I guess that made me feel a little guilty, so I was nicer to him than I planned. And he was nice back to me. And then we got to laughing and carrying on. We just wore ourselves out having a good time. He even said he'd heard the gossip that you and I were working together, and he said he didn't care. He thought it would be good for me to have an interest."
"Happy New Year, Tinkie." I felt as if I'd just dodged a bullet. "I've got another assignment for you."
"Great!"
"You sure you want to leave Oscar in there snoring?" I couldn't help but tease her a little bit.
"He needs his rest." Her giggle was young and happy. "You know how men are, Sarah Booth."
"Yeah, I've got a vague memory."
She laughed again. "I think you're going to get a big surprise tonight. Once Oscar got to talking, he just didn't want to stop. He told me a big, big secret."
"About the case?"
"No, silly. Something else. Something that's going to knock you right out of your shoes."
"Sounds divine, but right now we'd better focus on the case."
"Just tell me what you want me to do."
So I did. And with Tinkie on her way to Ruth Anne's with a request to call me back as soon as she saw the caller ID, I went upstairs to select my dress for the New Year's Eve dance at The Club.
Without Jitty's nagging and interference, I made my selections in a matter of minutes. By some stroke of fate, Sweetie Pie hadn't damaged my shoes. Everything was neatly stowed in my carryall when the phone began to ring. Tinkie didn't even wait for a hello.
"You're not going to believe this, Sarah Booth, but that call was made from Lawrence Ambrose's house. Do you—"
I didn't wait to hear the last of it. I dropped the phone, vaulted over my sleeping dog, and rushed out into crimson sunset of the last day of the year.
26
Driving to the courthouse, I had one thing on my mind—to find Harold. He was the only one who might possibly be able to interpret Lawrence's note.
Coleman was at his desk, and when I asked about Harold, he rose slowly to his feet. "He's in the jail," he said.
My opinion of Coleman rose in equal measure with my concern. Putting a man like Harold in jail was not a politically savvy move and one for which Coleman might pay a high price. The idea of Harold behind bars was bitingly painful. "I have to see him," I said, taking tough over pleading.
"He's had his phone call." Coleman sat back down and picked up some paperwork. He, too, was playing hardball.
"Brianna's still in town." I had bait and I knew how to cast.
He lowered the paperwork. "How do you know?"
"I'll tell you, if you let me see Harold." Bartering with Coleman was a dangerous game. He could easily pop me into a cell and I knew it. "You know Harold isn't capable of murder."
"Maybe not, but he's capable of being stubborn as a mule. I'll let you see him if you can make him talk."
It was an offer I couldn't refuse. "I have my ways."
Instead of taking me back, Coleman opened the door to the jail and motioned me through. Impeccable, as always, Harold rose from his cot as I approached the bars.
"Sarah Booth," he said in that deep, modulated voice. "I'd hoped to ask you for a dance tonight. I suppose that's out of the question now." He reached toward me but stopped. "Thank goodness you're okay. Did you find anything at—"
I leaned forward, pressing my face between the bars. I didn't want him to let on where I'd been. "You've got to make Coleman let you out of here."
Coleman had come up behind me. "All he has to do is answer a few questions. But my patience is wearing thin. With both of you."
I zeroed in on Harold. "Tell him what he wants to know."
Harold's ice-blue eyes held a spark of amusement. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for the party at The Club?"
"Stop it, Harold." I could take a
little teasing, but this simply wasn't the time. "I've got something to show you, something meant for you. When you read it, you have to tell the truth. You can't protect her any longer."
It was as if ice had formed in his irises. "I don't have to do a solitary thing. Let's make that perfectly clear."
"He's one stubborn son of a bitch," Coleman said with disgust. "He must like his cell, because with an attitude like that he's not getting out any time soon."
I pulled Lawrence's note from my pocket, waving it slowly.
Harold recognized the handwriting instantly, and despite himself there was eagerness in his voice. "Where did you get that?"
Whatever religious nutcase said confession was good for the soul had obviously never done anything wrong. I knew I was going to be in trouble with both men. "I picked it up off the floor at Lawrence's. When I found the body. I didn't read it until today because I tucked it in my coat pocket and Sweetie Pie stole my coat and dragged it under the house." I said it all really fast in the hopes that some of the details would slip past them.
Harold's hands grasped the bars, and Coleman's hands grasped my shoulders.
"You what?" they both said in unison.
"Read it. Out loud." By diverting attention to the note, which I handed off to Harold, I hoped to keep Coleman from arresting me.
Harold hesitated, then did as I asked. When he finished he lowered the page and stared at me. He knew what Lawrence meant. It was plain on his face.
"What does that mean—tears of stone on Brianna's past?" Coleman demanded.
Harold walked to his bunk and simply stood there.
"Harold, tell us," I pleaded. "I found a page of the manuscript. It's awful. Madame will be destroyed. So will your aunt Lenore. We have to find that book and . . . and ..." I stopped, because not even I could suggest what needed to be done.
"It's too late for Lenore. It was too late for her years ago." Harold faced us. "The irony of this is that Lawrence began his biography with the idea of helping her. The book was part of his big plan."
For a man who mostly communicated in binary language, Harold was certainly being oblique. Coleman's glower told me that Harold wasn't helping his case for freedom.
I jumped in with both feet. "I read the last page of the biography, and I'm here to tell you it's cold, hard, cruel, life-destroying fact. It isn't designed to help anyone at all. Now where's this place where tears of stone fall? We have to get there before Brianna."
Harold came up to the bars and wrapped his hands around them, one still clutching the note I'd given him. He leaned his forehead against the metal. "Sheriff, what do you want to know?"
Coleman spread his feet for balance and looked Harold squarely in the face. "How did that rat poison come to have your fingerprints on it?"
For a moment I thought Harold wasn't going to answer. Then his distinctive voice began. "I found the poison in a linen closet the night of Lawrence's party. He wasn't feeling well and called me over to help set up for the party. I was looking for napkins and found the poison instead. I suspected that Madame had been poisoning the mice in the cottage, and I knew it would infuriate Lawrence. He disapproved of all poisons. To prevent a serious fight between Madame and Lawrence, I took it."
"When did you take it?"
"That night. I put it in my briefcase in my car."
"And how did it get back in Lawrence's house?" Coleman asked quickly.
I knew the answer to that. "Brianna stole it out of Harold's briefcase and took it back to the cottage to frame him." From the look on Harold's face, I knew that I was right. "The only problem is that she implicated Madame, too."
Harold talked over me. "Someone took it. I have no proof it was Brianna."
"Stop defending her, Harold." It tore me up to see that he was still in love with Brianna, still trying to find an out for her, a way for her to avoid punishment.
Harold's eyes flashed fire. "Be careful, Sarah Booth. You don't know what you're treading on. This isn't as tidy as you'd like to make it."
"I don't care," I answered hotly. The image of Madame, so deflated and old. The memory of Cece's voice, her fear that a difficult past would rise up to haunt her. The burden of that was on my shoulders. "There are other people getting hurt here, not just your precious Brianna."
Coleman ignored the escalating anger between us. "Do you know where the manuscript is?" he asked Harold.
"Yes, I believe I do."
Coleman held up the cell key. "Where is it?"
"Greenwood," Harold said. "At my aunt Lenore's grave."
"Coleman, please." I put my hands on his strong forearm. "Let him out. We'll go get the manuscript and bring it back. You have my word."
Coleman stared at me. "We had a deal."
"You bet. Brianna's at Lawrence's cottage." It gave me great pleasure to rat her out. "She called Willem and I traced it via caller ID."
Harold's hands reached through the bars and caught my arms in a grip that conveyed passion and anger. "It isn't Brianna. Brianna is my cousin, Sarah Booth. She's Lenore's daughter."
The tension of the moment was shattered by the ringing telephone.
"Let him out, Coleman," I said, trying to detain the sheriff. Coleman ignored me and went into this office. I wanted to say something to Harold, but I didn't know what. I couldn't even look at him.
In a moment Coleman was back. He went to the cell door and opened it, waving Harold out. "I'm trusting the two of you," he said. "Find the manuscript and bring it back. I have some doubts about doing this, but I don't have a choice. I've got to get Brianna and my deputy's got to go up to Moon Lake."
"Moon Lake?" Harold and I said in unison.
"They identified the body of a drowned man up there. It's that college dean, Joseph Grace. Folks up there are beginning to think it's a murder instead of a drowning."
Our journey across the Delta was mostly silent. For company I had my own thoughts and judgments—and a healthy dash of regret—and Harold had his.
I was still gnawing on the fact that Brianna was Harold's cousin. Over the past week I'd spent a lot of time trying not to imagine what they might be doing to each other. Now it was as if I'd been creating a pornographic film in my mind.
Cousins!
It was like some bad parody of the South. All I needed was August humidity, kudzu, a run-down plantation, and a heroine of virginal innocence. Hell, I had all of it—except the virginal innocence. Which I wasn't certain was actually a necessary ingredient anyway. Faulkner managed without it.
"It was good of you to come to the jail to get me out," Harold said, breaking the hour-long silence between us. It was a nice opening, but the only thing it accomplished was throwing wide the door of my anger.
"Why didn't you tell me she was your cousin? Everyone in town thinks you're sleeping with her, Harold. They know you've been staying at her house."
He kept his gaze on the flat, straight stretch of road that was bordered by fallow cotton fields. "I'm not responsible for the conclusions to which people jump. Lawrence charged me with an obligation, and I had to see it through. As well as I could."
He was so damn proper. Even his diction. Anger buzzed in my head. "How long have you known about her?" Scenes flipped through my mind. Brianna at his reception after Lawrence's funeral, Brianna at the door, goading me. I truly wanted to throttle him.
"Lawrence told me the night he died. I was as shocked as anyone. I have such a vivid memory of Aunt Lenore. How could I miss the fact that she was pregnant?"
"How did the Rathbones manage to adopt her? I mean she looks just like—" I swung my gaze at him. He didn't respond, just kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel. "Layton Rathbone is her father. He and Lenore were lovers long ago. She never got over him."
"You've got the mind of a true romantic, Sarah Booth. For some reason that comforts me."
The whole thing was suddenly so clear. The ultimate betrayal to Lenore. "It was after Layton and his wife agreed to take the child that yo
ur aunt hanged herself. From the wrought iron fence of the church cemetery."
"Lenore had spent her life dreaming of the day when Layton would come for her. Lawrence never said, but I believe Lenore deliberately got pregnant, hoping to force the issue. She would either be an unwed woman or the wife of a divorced man. She hoped an honorable marriage would be her family's choice. She never considered that they'd hide her until delivery and then give the child away."
"Why didn't he marry her?"
"Layton was married. Divorce wasn't a possibility. Passion or love didn't exist as a real issue for my grandparents. Duty and propriety were the boundaries that marked their days. They would not tolerate a divorced man as a son-in-law." Most of this was said by rote, as if he'd memorized it. But his voice changed toward the end. "Lately, I've begun to suspect that he wouldn't have married her had he been single."
We were arriving at the city limits of Greenwood, a town of three rivers with conflicting currents. My anger had dissipated, my heart softened by the plight of Lenore Erkwell. To have loved that deeply. A portion of me envied her that passion, but another, saner part of me couldn't ignore her suffering.
"It's hard to believe that Lenore's parents would have sacrificed her happiness for the sake of propriety," I finally said. My parents would have accepted Sam the Sham, if he'd been the man I loved.
Harold laughed softly. "Spoken like a girl who had her parents' unconditional love and approval. You had a rare and wondrous childhood, Sarah Booth. Never forget that, and never believe that others shared it. Especially not Brianna. I know you believe her to be a criminal, but can you imagine what it must have been like, growing up with a mother who took every opportunity to show that she didn't love you? And never knowing why."
Harold was pushing his luck. I would not feel sorry for Brianna Rathbone. No way. "She didn't know about this?"
"She still doesn't."
"What?" I was astounded.
"I didn't tell her. I couldn't."
He wouldn't have to. "She'll find out soon enough if she reads that manuscript. Judging from the page I read, Lawrence pulls out all the stops."
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