"Your dog has a friend coming over?" Kip looked from me to Sweetie Pie.
"Chablis. Tinkie's dog." I hesitated, then took the plunge. "I think you'd like the little vermin. She's terminally cute, and she has a lot of heart. Why don't you come down and meet Chablis and have some strawberry pie with me and Tinkie?"
She looked as if I'd asked her to perform a ballet on a bed of nails. "I'm not hungry."
"Kip, please come down. A grilled cheese sandwich won't hold you for long. You haven't eaten enough to keep a bird alive since you got here."
"Why do you care?" Her green eyes didn't flinch, but the please had gotten to her.
"I won't pretend to like you, but I do care what happens to you."
"Because of my mother?"
"Partly. Also because of you. I have a feeling that if you'd give me half a chance, we might actually like each other."
She rubbed her eyes as if suddenly aware the makeup was gone. "Why aren't you married?" she demanded.
The question took me by surprise. "I haven't found the right man." I glanced past her to see if Jitty, somehow, had invaded her room and her brain. "It hasn't been my sole mission in life."
"All the women who come to the barn talk about their husbands, or the men they're screwing. That's all they talk about." She said this with complete disgust. "What's wrong with you?"
"Now that's a question that will take at least half an hour to answer. If you come downstairs, I'm sure Tinkie will be glad to fill you in."
Her lips pressed together. "I can leave if I want?"
I nodded. "But once Tinkie starts dishing the dirt on me, you'll be too fascinated to depart."
I didn't give her a chance to refuse. I walked away. Kip was furious with everyone and everything associated with her parents. I'd found only one thing that she seemed to like—dogs. Sweetie Pie had slipped beneath her defenses. Chablis was the next tool I had to attack the wall of armor Kip had so efficiently built.
6
Tinkie's tiny fists pounded against the old oak of Dahlia House's front door. With one eye on Kip, I opened the door. As usual, Tinkie sailed past me, Chablis tucked under one arm. "I'd adore some coffee, Sarah Booth," she said. "And some pie. I'm desperate for—" The sight of Kip, standing at the bottom of the stairs, halted her.
"Is that Katrina Lee Fuquar?" Tinkie asked as she began to circle Kip as though she were some exotic animal liable to pounce at any moment.
Kip held her ground. "My name is Kip." She stared at Tinkie unflinchingly, enduring the inspection.
"As you well know, Kip is staying with me," I said, grasping Tinkie's arm and propelling her toward the kitchen. "The coffee's perking." Tinkie could almost always be distracted with food.
I looked over my shoulder and motioned Kip to follow us. Tinkie was still craning her neck to look back at the teenager as I pushed her through the dining room and into the kitchen. Without further ado, I parked her at the table.
The afternoon sun was coming through the white lace of the eyelet curtains, which danced on a tickling spring breeze. The strawberries smelled sweet and ripe, a promise of summer. Long ago, on just such a spring morning, I'd sat at the table and watched my mother make strawberry pies. "Nothing like fresh fruit in season," she'd said, holding out a washed berry for me to eat. The white curtains had filled with her laughter, fluttering like shards of sunlight.
"Sarah Booth?" Tinkie said, her brow furrowed. "Are you okay?"
I was saved from answering by the sound of footsteps in the dining room. To my surprise, Kip pushed through the swinging door and took a seat at the table. While Tinkie stared at Kip, Kip was mesmerized by Chablis.
"She's beautiful," she said, holding out a hand for Chablis to sniff.
The miniature fluffball leaped from Tinkie's arms and skittered across the table into Kip's lap. Her overbitten little jaw worked furiously as she licked Kip's face.
Sweetie Pie butted through the swinging door, tail thumping everything in sight. She rushed to Kip, put her front paws on the chair, and joined in the frenzy. Her long tongue slurped Kip's other cheek.
"She has a way with animals," Tinkie said, fascinated. "She must get that from her mother."
"The only things I got from Mother are green eyes and the knowledge that I'll never marry." Still holding Chablis, Kip stood up. "Can I take them outside?"
"Sure," Tinkie and I said in unison.
Kip banged out the back door with Chablis in her arms and Sweetie Pie on her heels.
"That hair," Tinkie said. "I think we should shave her head. She might have lice."
"She's having a hard time," I said, putting a slice of pie and a cup of coffee in front of Tinkie.
"And what about you?" Tinkie asked. "How are you managing with her in your home? It concerns me. Have you considered another"—she knew she was treading on thin ice—"place for Kip to stay? She has a reputation for having a really bad temper."
Lee had asked for my help, and I had given my word. But Tinkie was acting only as a concerned friend. "I'm fine with Kip being here. We set some ground rules. Kip may have a temper, but she also has a good brain. It's in her best interests to keep me satisfied with her conduct."
My reputation for stubbornness was well known. "If you say so," Tinkie said as she speared a lush strawberry and held it to her mouth. I watched in fascination as she simultaneously bit and sucked, her Tawny Port lips moving over the berry in the most extraordinary fashion. Not a hint of moisture escaped her. I was immediately thrown back into the past. Ninth grade, high school cafeteria. Tinkie eating a strawberry in exactly the same fashion. It had brought Simon Mills, the chemistry teacher, to his proverbial knees. Tinkie had a lot to teach me.
"Where did you learn to do that?" I asked her.
She looked at me, all wide-eyed innocence. "Do what?"
I shook my head. "What did you find out?"
"You're going to love this," she said, pushing the almost empty plate away and leaning forward. "The hunt season is over. There's going to be a big ball." Her eyes sparkled. "And I've gotten both of us invited!"
I was impressed. I'd never run in the hunt society, but I knew the social events were always exclusive. "This is perfect. How did you manage it?"
She shrugged one shoulder in a modest gesture that was completely sincere. "Since Lee's in jail, Virginia Cooley Davis is hosting the ball. Let's just say she owes me a favor or two." Tinkie smiled.
"Virginia?" She'd been a delicate young girl who played the piano and read novels. I couldn't imagine her riding a horse in a blood sport, and said so.
"She doesn't ride. Her husband is a whip in the hunt, and she handles the social calendar." Tinkie retrieved the pie and opened her mouth for the last strawberry. When she finished, there wasn't even a smudge of whipped cream on her perfect lipstick. A Daddy's Girl had many talents.
"This is the final ball of the season," Tinkie continued, "and Chesterfield always has a very, very elegant affair. The men will wear tails with the colors of the hunt on the collar, and the ladies"—she grinned—"we wear ball gowns fit to kill." Her expression changed to one of worry. "Can you find a date? You have to have an escort."
"Of course I can find a date," I replied, cut to the bone. "You act like no one will go out with me."
"Have you been out since Hamilton the Fifth went back to Europe?" she asked pointedly.
"I've been busy, and—" Truth was, Hamilton, the focus of my first case and the man who'd touched my heart, was often on my mind.
"So, the answer is no. It doesn't sound like your dance card has any marks on it."
I glared at her. "You know, you're beginning to remind me of Brianna Rathbone." Brianna had figured prominently in my last case— as primary suspect, primo Daddy's Girl, former schoolmate, former model, wannabe biographer, and bitch extraordinaire.
Tinkie only laughed. "Well, put your thinking cap on, because you need an escort. And don't think you can fall back on Harold. I hear he's already got a date." She tilted her he
ad, watching for my reaction.
"Who?" My attempt to play uninterested was a failure.
"This is the other thing I found out." She slowly sat back in her chair, playing out the moment like Gloria Swanson waiting for her close-up. "Harold's taking a married woman because her husband can't attend. Carol Beth Bishop!" At my blank look, she continued with some exasperation. "She was a Farley."
I inhaled. "No!" I remembered her perfectly.
She nodded. "In fact, she's in town right this minute. Even better, she's out at Swift Level, and she's claiming that she owns Lee's prime breeding stallion and four of her best mares. She has a bill of sale from Kemper, signing the horses over as collateral for a debt."
I stood up so fast my chair spilled over backward. There was a startled yelp at the kitchen window, and I caught a glimpse of Kip stumbling away. She'd been eavesdropping.
"Carol Beth Farley! She's the person claiming Lee's horses?" Now I knew why Bud Lynch had been so desperate to talk to Lee. Carol Beth took what she wanted, when she wanted it. Anyone who got in her way was flattened.
Tinkie nodded. "She's already called the sheriff on that trainer, Lynch. He won't turn over the horses to her."
"Bravo for him." His stock rose a notch in my eyes. At least he was good for something. "Carol Beth Farley," I said, pacing the kitchen. The moment that defined her for me was a sixth-grade piano recital competition held the spring after my parents' death. She'd worn a designer gown, her mahogany brown curls piled high on her head and a glittering tiara nestled on top. She'd taken one look at the plain satin dress Aunt LouLane had made for me and twisted up one corner of her mouth. "Appearance is three quarters of the performance," she'd said, and then gone on to prove it. She'd won.
But the story was more complex than our childhood rivalry. Frankie Archey was, hands down, the best pianist in the school. Three broken fingers on his right hand had forced him to withdraw from the contest. The day before the recital, when he was practicing alone in the school auditorium, Carol Beth slammed the piano cover on his hand. She said it was an accident. Frankie said nothing at all.
"How did you find out about Carol Beth?" I asked Tinkie.
"Virginia told me. She was at Swift Level making preparations for the ball. It's still going to be held there, even with Lee in jail. Lee has insisted, though Heaven knows why. Anyway, Virginia heard the whole exchange between the trainer and Carol Beth." She bit her lower lip, then let it pop out from her teeth. I'd borrowed that little gesture to good advantage in the past.
"Good work, Tinkie."
"There's one other thing." She paused.
"What?"
"Virginia said several of our old crowd have been taking riding lessons from that horse trainer. It seems Bud has quite a following among the ladies."
I caught a glimpse of Kip, back at the window. Judging from the expression on her face, she wasn't as indifferent to what was happening as she wanted to make out.
Once Tinkie and Chablis had gone, I went up to Kip's room. She was lying on her unmade bed, a magazine open in front of her.
"We need to talk about school," I said. I needed to keep Kip busy and out of trouble.
"I'm not going back." She didn't bother to look up from the magazine. I sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Kip, you can't drop out of school."
She closed the magazine, revealing a horse and rider clearing a big fence. "Mr. Hayden said I could do my classes on-line if I can borrow your computer. I just can't go back to school now."
"I'll talk it over with your mom," I agreed.
"Do that," she said. "She won't care. I missed school all the time to ride." She flipped the magazine open again and began to read an article. I was dismissed.
Kip was heavy on my mind as I drove to The Zinnia Dispatch to see what Cece had dug up on Kemper. Because I'd already eaten peach cobbler and a modest portion of strawberry pie, I decided to forgo the cheese Danish that was my usual offering to Cece. Poor decision. Cece was always nicer when fed.
Cece's door was open, and I slowed and stopped just outside when I noticed the well-dressed man sitting in front of her desk. He was groomed to perfection, and sat with one ankle crossed over a knee, perfectly at ease.
"An industrial park isn't exactly a society page story," Cece said in a tone that showed her patience had worn thin.
"Sunflower County has no development," the man said patiently. "What I'm proposing will bring jobs here. And my ideas on development are far from merely industrial. I envision great things for Sunflower County. This is a land rich in history and heritage. These are all things that can be capitalized on."
"It's a news story, not society," Cece insisted.
"Mr. Erkwell, at the bank, specifically told me to talk to you," the man said.
He was not big of stature, but he had grit. Either that or he was dumb as a post. I lingered just outside the door, shamelessly eavesdropping.
"I'll have to thank Harold," Cece said. She leaned forward on her desk. Her perfect breasts pressed against the pale yellow sweater she wore, and I saw the gentleman's gaze lock on them. "You need to talk to someone on the news side, Mr. Walz. I can't help you."
"On the contrary, Miss Falcon. One positive mention of River-bend Development Company in your column could open a lot of doors for us. We need the support of the community." He leaned forward in his chair as he continued to talk to her breasts.
"Mr. Erkwell explained to me how so many people, especially the . . . landed gentry, shall we call them, frown on development. I concede that there have been too many unfortunate incidents in the past where historic homes and beautiful architecture have been razed to make way for progress. I want to assure the people of Sunflower County that Riverbend isn't that kind of company. You could help me get that across."
I saw a flicker of interest pass over Cece's features. "Exactly what are your plans for Sunflower County?" she asked.
"We're very ambitious. We have some major investors. We're thinking of a golf course, a PGA-level course, with a country club and a housing development. Very elite, but preserving the integrity of the original property." He had his hands on his knees and had leaned back, but the flush on his face indicated that he had not lost interest in Cece's nonjournalistic assets. "It would be the economic scoop of the year for this state. This region."
"Have you selected a location?" Cece's tone was slightly bored, but I saw the keen interest in her eyes.
"We're exploring our options, but I'd like, very much, to anchor this development in Sunflower County. I've seen several pieces of property that capture my interest," he said, rising to his feet. "Can we count on your help?"
Cece finally caught sight of me lurking outside the door. "As I said, Mr. Walz, this is a news story. Until you begin development."
He smiled at her. "I'll look forward to working with you, Miss Falcon." He came out of the office, nodding at me as he left.
"Who was that?" I asked, stepping into her office and closing the door.
"Nathaniel Walz," she said, rolling her eyes. "A short man with a persistence problem."
"Have you found out anything for me?" I asked, settling into the chair that Walz had vacated.
Cece's smile grew wide and toothsome. "You will not believe what I found." Her nails, beautifully manicured and painted a glittering shade of metallic fruit, drummed on the small space of her desk that wasn't piled with paper.
"Spill it, Cece."
"Krystal Brook, the country singer, wants to do a benefit for Lee, to raise money for her defense. Her husband, who's also her manager, stopped by to see if I would do some articles if Krystal agreed to sing."
"Terrific." Benefit was good, but I needed leads.
"You'll never guess who Krystal Brook really is." Cece was beside herself.
"Who?" I asked, not wanting to play celebrity guessing games.
"Simpson Maes Fielding!"
I was stunned. Simpson was a Daddy's Girl, not a country music diva. "Simpson?"<
br />
Cece nodded, arching one perfectly groomed brow. "Her husband, Mike Rich, is trying to launch her career big time."
"Simpson is now Krystal?" I was still in disbelief. "Krystal Brook? That's her name now?"
"She legally changed her name. It takes a lot of guts to do that—to just abandon the past and become a completely different person."
Cece would know, from firsthand experience. "It takes a little getting used to, but it sounds like a great country music name."
"This benefit could help Lee and Krystal both. Mike said that Krystal is really talented, that she just needs a chance. She'll get total media coverage for doing this."
It was good to know that Simpson hadn't been completely transformed. She could still find the silver lining in another person's cloud. "Great. I hope it works out. But did you find out anything about Kemper that we can use?"
Not bothering to hide her miff at my lack of interest in music stars, Cece picked up a notepad and began to scan it. "I'm still digging. I haven't been able to locate his family, but I did turn up an interesting tidbit. He was expelled from Louisiana State University. Some form of misconduct. And he owned a club in New Orleans for a time." She slid her hand over the varnished surface of her desk. Her Gilded Apricot nails shimmered. "In general, a lot of false starts. Until he hooked up with Lee."
"No criminal charges?"
"None," she said, "but I'm still checking." She shuffled the papers on her desk and selected a sheet. "I have taken care of Kemper's funeral arrangements. There was no one else to do it. Thursday. Eleven o'clock. St. Lucy's Cemetery."
"Thank you, Cece." I meant it. "I know Lee will appreciate it."
"I'd have her there, Sarah Booth. For her daughter's sake and for appearances."
I nodded. "I could kiss you."
Cece held up one hand like Diana Ross stopping love. "Control yourself, Sarah Booth. We're friends, but you're not my type. Speaking of types, wherever are you going to get a date for the hunt ball? I've racked my brain, and I can't think of a single man who would take you on."
I stopped at the Pig and bought food. In concession to Kip's age, I included some chips and colas, but I also got shredded cabbage, catfish, and the makings for hush puppies and fries. I wasn't certain what type of food Kip liked, but no one in her right mind could resist fried catfish and all the trimmings. Grocery sacks in hand, I hustled in the back door. Sweetie was sound asleep on the kitchen floor, and there was no sign of Kip.
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