I gave her a tired smile. "You saved my life."
"Not really. Coleman and I just effected the mopping up. You already had them both at gunpoint." She topped off my glass. "If Daddy and Oscar had just told me the whole truth ..."
I didn't have the energy to point out that such disclosures were seldom freely given outside the circle of men. "So Layton was in cahoots with Hosea up at Moon Lake." Finally, everything made sense. "Layton's affair with Lenore was just an excuse to keep going back to Moon Lake. He used her. From beginning to end." I sat down at the kitchen table and finished off my champagne in one gulp.
Tinkie refilled my glass.
"I don't understand why Jebediah didn't kill Layton when he killed Hosea," Tinkie said.
"I doubt we'll ever know that. Hosea was a bully, but he didn't have what it took to kill, and Layton did. It's clear he killed Lawrence and Joseph Grace." I shuddered. Coleman had told me that the photographs that had been cut from the albums at Moon Lake had been found on Grace's body. Apparently the dean had been trying to set up a blackmail scheme against Layton. Not very smart, since it had cost him his life. "Maybe Jebediah was ultimately afraid of Layton."
"What will happen to Brianna and her father?" Tinkie put the bottle in front of me.
"Brianna poisoned Lawrence with the warfarin. She confessed to me. But it was Layton who went over there and cut his hand. He's the murderer."
"Layton knew Brianna was poisoning him?"
"He was the one who got the warfarin for her. I thought it was the rat poison she was using, but it wasn't. She was crushing up pills and dumping them in the Jim Beam. When she found the rat poison in Harold's briefcase, it was the perfect opportunity to frame Harold." Once arrested, Brianna had spilled her guts in an effort to save her own hide.
"What will happen to Willem?" Tinkie asked.
"I don't know. He was trying to replace the paintings. And Harold said Lawrence knew about it. I suppose it depends to a large extent on whether Harold wants to press charges or not."
There was a tap on the kitchen door. Dr. Matthews came in and put a hand on my shoulder. "Sweetie Pie's going to be just fine, Sarah Booth. I sedated her and resutured. She'll sleep until morning, and I suggest that you do the same."
It sounded like heavenly advice. "Thanks. For everything."
I walked him to the front door and watched as Coleman led Brianna and Layton out to the patrol car. A couple of deputies had arrived to work backup, and Tinkie and I stood in the freezing cold on the porch as they all left.
"It's finally over," Tinkie said, putting an arm around my shoulders. "You solved your second case, Sarah Booth!"
The shrill of the telephone almost made me jump out of my skin. "I'll get it." Tinkie rushed back inside, and I followed. I felt as if I'd been run over by a bulldozer and buried in a ditch.
"She'll be there," I heard Tinkie promise.
"Be where?" I asked.
"That was Cece. She's about to have a duck. She's at The Club with the camera, and she's waiting for you."
"The dance." There was no possible way I could go to the New Year's Eve dance. Not even for Cece. I groaned and headed toward the sofa. Sweetie was sleeping peacefully beside it, the last flickering blaze of the fire Coleman had built highlighting the russet spots of her hide.
Tinkie's hand grabbed mine and she pulled me toward the door. "You have to go."
"I can't," I whined. "I really can't."
"You have to." There was determination in Tinkie's voice. "Trust me, Sarah Booth. You want to go."
"I do not."
"You do. And you're going." She went to the closet and pulled out a coat. "Put it on."
"Why?" I couldn't believe she was going to force me.
"You gave your word. Sarah Booth Delaney, private investigator, never reneges on her word."
I was beginning to regret hiring Tinkie. Sure, she'd saved my life by calling Coleman. And she'd saved Sweetie's life. I looked down at my sleeping hound and slipped into the coat. There were some things worth payback.
"I'll drive." She hustled me out to the car and in a matter of moments we were flying through the Delta night. The full moon had risen high and assumed the lead role in the sparkling night.
"We'll make it just before midnight," she declared as she burned rubber in the parking lot. "It's a new year, Sarah Booth, you can't celebrate alone."
I'd intended to sleep, but it was a moot issue anyway. I got out of the car and walked into The Club. Cece waved to me from across the room.
Someone had hired a hot band, and when the lead guitar hit a chilling slide, the skin on my bare back danced. I hadn't recognized him at first, but there was no mistaking Percy Sledge as he belted out his signature song, "When a Man Loves a Woman."
Even as tired and bruised as I was, the song moved me. A firm hand settled on my bare shoulder, the fingers tightening with just enough pressure to make me draw a sudden breath. I turned to face Hamilton Garrett V.
It wasn't possible, but in his tuxedo, he was even more handsome than I remembered. His dark hair was pulled back, revealing the chiseled jaw that I recalled so well in the morning light of my bedroom window. His green eyes burned with devilment.
"Happy New Year, Sarah Booth. May I have this dance?"
My entire blood supply shot to my head and then rushed to my skin. I went from cold to hot in a nanosecond. "Hamilton?" Surely I was dreaming.
"I couldn't possibly welcome in the new year alone," he said, easing me into his arms.
I found my face resting against his starched shirt and my body moving in tandem with his. It was a good thing because I was incapable of speech. Perhaps Layton had actually shot me and this was some kind of heavenly limbo where I could merely rest in Hamilton's imagined arms until I was called up for judgment.
"Sarah Booth!" I heard Tinkie whispering my name and I lifted my head long enough to find her. She was dancing beside me in Oscar's arms. "I told you I had a surprise," she said, giggling. "And Oscar said I couldn't keep a secret." She looked up at her husband with open flirtation. "There are lots of things I don't tell. Since I'm Sarah Booth's partner, I have to be very discreet."
They danced away and I was left with the problem of saying something to Hamilton. When I looked up at him, I found he was watching me with amused expectation.
"What, no questions? I was certain you'd have at least fifty things to ask me, most of them personal and none of them any of your business."
"And what makes you think I'd be interested enough in your business to ask a single question?" I asked, but then I couldn't help myself. "Why did you come home?"
Hamilton chuckled, dipping me down at the end of the song. "To see you, Sarah Booth. I found that Paris was dull without you."
Whether it was his words or the dip, I couldn't be certain, but a wave of dizziness swept over me. Luckily he had strong arms, and he pulled me upright against him. His lips whispered over my forehead. "I've missed you."
The band swung into the opening strain of "Auld Lang Syne," and everyone began the countdown.
"Why didn't you call, or at least send a card?"
"We can play sixty questions, or you can kiss me," Hamilton suggested.
I closed my eyes and offered my lips as the parters hit five-four-three-two-one. The clapping, cheering, horn-blowing crowd dimmed. There was only Hamilton.
The kiss lingered well into the new year, and I gave myself to it with complete abandon. As a slave of tradition, I realized I'd set a precedent. According to Delaney superstition, the acts committed on the first day of the year will be repeated throughout the year. It wasn't a guarantee, but it was a dynamite start to a new year.
Of course, where Hamilton Garrett was concerned, there were no guarantees or traditions. There was only the moment.
It was enough.
Another conversation with Carolyn Haines, author of Buried Bones, Them Bones, Splintered Bones, and Crossed Bones, and her character Cece Dee Falcon
Columnis
t for The Zinnia Dispatch Cece Dee Falcon has insisted on interviewing author Carolyn Haines. Cece was dissatisfied with the prior interview conducted by Jitty. The questions weren't tough enough, according to the journalist.
Since Mississippi in the spring is a preview of heaven. Cece and Carolyn met for an afternoon mint julep on the porch of Dahlia House.
CAROLYN: How's your drink, Cece? I grew the mint myself.
CECE: The drink is fine, dahling, but you've got the protocol all backwards. I ask; you answer. You made me a tough journalist and you have to live with it. My, this is going to be fun.
CAROLYN: Give it your best shot.
CECE: Well, dahling, how does one go about becoming a mystery writer? And remember, no fibbing. I have access to your innermost thoughts.
CAROLYN: I think it has a lot to do with upbringing. I grew up in a family of journalists. Some of my earliest memories are of both my parents at the kitchen table, one at either end—dueling typewriters. I was raised with the idea of hunting for the story beneath the story.
CECE: Yes, as a journalist myself, I know what it's like to have "ink in the blood." So tell the readers of The Zinnia Dispatch, why did you select our little hamlet of Zinnia as the setting for your books?
CAROLYN: I grew up in a small town, and I think the interrelationships of the people in a town are often more intense. I live in a city now, and though I recognize city officials on television, I don't know them. In a small town, people know the public persona, but they also know the personal details. It makes for a more complex and subtle stew. As to the location of the town in the Mississippi Delta, I can only say that geography dictates character. Where else could I have found you and Tinkie and Jitty? Not to mention Lawrence and Harold. You just sprang out of that rich Delta soil like a high-dollar crop of cotton.
CECE: Tell us, how does it feel to murder a character? I mean there are people I've fantasized about strangling, but one doesn't actually follow through. But you do. How does that feel?
CAROLYN: Now that's a great question, Cece. I'm proud of you. Killing off a character is a very emotional decision. There are some folks who just need killing, as you'll discover in the next book. And there are others, like Lawrence, who live on in my mind, even though he may be dead in the pages of the book. But look at it this way. If Lawrence wasn't murdered, there wouldn't be a book. Still, there are regrets when someone I've come to like has to die.
CECE: When you begin to write the book, do you know who the killer is?
CAROLYN: Another excellent question. The correct answer would be, "Yes, I always know." But I feel that I must be truthful with you and your readers. Sometimes I think I know. What I mean is that I start out knowing—and then things change. You people aren't the easiest to manage, you know. While I'm sleeping or swimming or riding my horses, y'all do things I don't expect. Then I sit down to write and acts have been committed that change the whole complexion of the story. I probably shouldn't confess this because it indicates I'm not in control of my work. But then I've spent too many years trying to control things. I guess I just have to trust y'all not to lead me too far down the primrose path.
CECE: You really should give us some credit. We are quite capable of taking care of most things. I'm sure I could improve on Sarah Booth's wardrobe if you'd just let me have sway.
CAROLYN: Don't get huffy—or personal. I didn't mean to imply that you're inept. Ask me something else.
CECE: Okay, how much like you is Sarah Booth?
CAROLYN: Oh, my, now that's a very probing question. Are you trying to psychoanalyze me?
CECE: Don't get clever on me. You know I got a better education at Ole Miss than you did. Just answer my questions.
CAROLYN: Can an author ever be separated from her creation? No. Sarah Booth and I both share a love of
mischief and adventure. We both love animals. We're both nosy. How's that?
CECE: You're dodging the question!
CAROLYN: Not deliberately. The thing is, all of the populace of Zinnia have things in common with me. Even the wicked characters. A writer and her creations are inseparable.
CECE: Now that's a fine bit of smoke and mirrors. I can see you're not going to give me a real answer, so let's move on. Are Sarah Booth and Tinkie going to work well together? I mean I love Tinkie to death, but sometimes she is so blond!
CAROLYN: Tinkie adds some balance to the partnership, don't you think? And someone has to keep an eye on Sarah Booth. She's prone to jump in over her head.
CECE: What's going to happen next? Are you ever going to give Sarah Booth a sense of style?
CAROLYN: What, you don't think Sarah Booth cuts a fine figure?
CECE: Maybe she could discover a relative who works in the fashion business. She could go to New York for a makeover. And she could take me! Now that would be a good story.
CAROLYN: I see where you're headed and don't go there.
CECE: Okay, so what's the next mystery? Inquiring minds want to know.
CAROLYN: I'd drop that slogan if I were you. It doesn't become you. I've crafted you to be classier than tabloid fare. I can't give away the next book, but I can give you a few hints. That way you can see what it's like to be a private investigator. If I give you the proper clues, maybe you can figure it out. There will be wealth, glamour, and horses—and a man who just needs killing.
CECE: Are the Dixie Chicks going to put in a surprise appearance?
CAROLYN: Now that's an idea. They understand why Earl had to die. I wonder if I could put them on the jury?
CECE: You'd better check their concert schedule. Now let's see . . . horses, glamour, wealth, and murder. Sounds like it could be a very social event.
CAROLYN: Absolutely.
CECE: Then of course I play a starring role!
CAROLYN: Absolutely.
CECE: Then I suppose it doesn't matter what the mystery is about. My audience will be perfectly happy just reading about me. I suppose I've devoted enough column inches to you. Writers are never as interesting as their characters are. Now get back to work. Things in Zinnia are dull when you aren't working.
1
There is something about warm soil that connects the past and future into the present. The earth is female in the truest sense of the word. Life springs from it. It is the power of the feminine, the base of creation. For a Delaney, land is the source of family and heritage. For me, Sarah Booth Delaney, the last of this old Southern family, the rich soil of the Mississippi Delta holds the promise of seed and growth—the fecundity that my own womb has been denied. Or at least denied for the moment.
The black soil was rich and damp beneath my fingers as I turned the earth with the trowel. Gardening isn't one of my passions. In fact, this was my first attempt. But I had been inspired by a master gardener's words, and the pull of a hot March sun on this Monday morning had been irresistible. Beneath my gentle hands, the ten containers of various herbs would sprout into lush health. I might not be Mother Nature, but I was apprenticing as one of her daughters.
In this new venture, I was aided by my heritage. Dahlia House has some of the best topsoil in the world. Anything can grow here. And I had the books of the late Lawrence Ambrose to guide me.
I picked up a plastic container, checking to see that it was lemon basil. I held it aloft, asking the sun to power it to a huge shrub, a Godzilla lemon basil! Holding the basil and my trowel aloft, I felt the power of a gardening goddess. I would yield a crop! And I would never go hungry again!
"Girl, you holdin' that hand spade like Xena about to be struck by lightning. What's got you out here in the hot sun grubbin' around in the dirt like Mr. Green Jeans?"
I lowered the sacred vessel of basil and my trowel and looked into the dark-chocolate eyes of my nemesis and companion, Jitty. Lucky for the rest of the world, Jitty afflicts only me. She's a ghost. An old ghost with a streak of bossiness a mile wide.
"I'm planting an herb garden, if you must know." I knelt back in the earth, searching again for the
sense of power and strength that had evaporated.
"Get you a sun hat. You thirty-three. Almost thirty-four. If you let that sun beat down on you, your neck's gone go all crepey an' look just like puckered chicken skin. You ain't got but a few good years left. You better preserve what you can."
Jitty took a seat on an overturned bucket. Rocking back on my heels I looked at her. Her skin was a smooth milk-chocolate, and it covered a body that curved and swelled in all the right places. Death might not be a pleasant experience, but ghosthood had some definite advantages. She would never age, while I would plump and wither, depending on which stage of decline I happened to be in.
"Gardening is good for you," I said, knowing that logic would never work on Jitty. She was obsessed with one thing and one thing only—getting an heir for Dahlia House so she could continue to reside in the old plantation once I "passed." Prospects for continuing the line weren't looking encouraging.
"What would be good for you would be a little horizontal exercise." Jitty nodded knowingly.
"Lawrence said gardening relieves stress and gives a sense of satisfaction. We'll also have wonderful spices and seasonings to cook with."
Jitty raised one delicate eyebrow. "Cook? You good at fruitcakes—the kind you make and the kind you attract. Listen to me, Sarah Booth, time is runnin' out. Better you figure out how to sprout you a baby and leave the plants to someone else." She stood up and I was shocked to see that she was wearing baggy sweatpants and a sleeveless T-shirt. My pants and shirt. "I got us a plan."
"No!" Whatever it was, it was going to be humiliating for me.
"It's a good one."
"No!" She was scaring me.
"Just listen to it. I've got it all figured out. Right here from the safety of Dahlia House—" She suddenly turned her head. "We'll discuss this later. Company's comin'."
Before I could get off my knees to argue with her, I heard the sound of a car pulling into the drive. Instead of stopping at the front, the sleek brown patrol car pulled to the backyard and Coleman Peters, Sunflower County sheriff, stepped into the March sun.
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