Not even whiskey could rout Kip from my thoughts. I hadn't realized how disturbed she truly was. Was she mentally unbalanced enough to risk burning down Swift Level? Had she actually turned off the sprinklers? The fire had been contained to the stud barn, but one gust of wind and the flames could have been spread to the mare and foal barn, then on to the main barn or the covered show ring. Kip was fourteen, a child. But she was intelligent and surely capable of understanding the danger of starting a fire, and the consequences of murder, even for a man who so soundly deserved to die.
She was terribly disturbed, and I had to accept it. Lee, too, would have to come to terms with the truth. And soon.
I sponged water down my back and sank against my pillow. I polished off one drink and poured another from the crystal decanter of amber liquid. The storm had passed, and weak sunlight came through the window by the bathtub. I held the decanter aloft, enjoying the play of light on the glass and whiskey. I knew I had to call Dr. Vance in Memphis. I wondered if I could find him on a Sunday.
Sweetie Pie's toenails scrabbled on the oak floor in the foyer, and I listened for her to head up the steps. She was mostly a meat-and-potatoes kind of dog, but she also had a fondness for bathwater. I suspected she, too, was missing Kip. We could have a little drink together and commiserate.
Suddenly, there was a low growl that ended in a snarl. I had the sensation of an icicle dragged slowly up my spine. I eased out of the water, grabbed a towel, and slipped to my bedroom door. The extended growl came again from the landing of the stairs.
Someone was in the house.
Leaving sodden footprints behind me, I tiptoed over to the computer and picked up the telephone on my desk. The phone was dead. The damn computer modem was plugged in. Dahlia House needed an entire wiring face-lift.
There was no time to scrabble around tracing a snarl of wires. My clothes were scattered over the floor, and for once it was a good thing. I found jeans and a blouse and slipped into them, stepping into some sneakers as I zipped my pants.
Outside, the day was ending on a note of fresh-washed glory. The storm had passed, and pink clouds burned to the west. The intense light gave the room a glow that made everything seem more vivid, as if the volume of color had increased, saturating everything. My blood was pumping hard as I looked around my bedroom for a weapon. I picked up a heavy candlestick and inched back to the door.
Sweetie's growl was even lower, more deadly, finally ending on a snarl and a snap. I heard her moving slowly up the stairs until she took her stand outside the open bedroom door. Crouching low, she readied herself for the attack.
She was not a hound who would back down in a shoot-out. She'd already rescued me twice, and in the process had taken a stab in the gut and a grazing wound from a bullet, not to mention having her sutures ripped open.
I pressed myself against the wall by the door, ready to rush out as soon as Sweetie made her move. If she could knock the intruder down, I would deliver the coup de grace. I gripped the candlestick tighter, listening to the very soft tread on the stairs.
"You are one ugly-looking dog."
The voice was casual and feminine, not at all what I expected. I leaned against the wall and exhaled. Not that Krystal Brook wasn't a dangerous woman, but I didn't think she'd come to kill me while talking a blue streak to advertise her presence.
"Sarah Booth Delaney, call off this dog!" Krystal yelled.
"Have you ever heard of knocking?" I asked, stepping into the doorway. "I was ready to bash your brains in."
"Seems to be a bad habit in this part of the country." She stayed on the top step, her gaze shifting from Sweetie to me. "I did knock. Repeatedly. The serving staff seems to be in a coma. No one came to the door. What kind of dog is that, anyway? I've never seen anything that ugly."
"Watch it," I warned her. "Sweetie Pie is a red tic, and she's mine. I happen to find her quite lovely."
She rolled her eyes. "There's no accounting for taste."
"How true. I never in a million years thought I'd see you prancing on a stage in white boots."
"Honey, my wardrobe is the least of my problems. You should try being married to your manager." She made a rueful face. "I stopped by because I wanted to check on you, and we never got a chance to talk. I suppose Bud's a moot issue, now." She shrugged, but it didn't hide the slight tremble in her voice.
The ice was melting in my drink, and a good hostess always offers her guest refreshments. "Let's go to the parlor and fix a drink," I suggested, pointing her back down the stairs.
"Bourbon on the rocks. It's five o'clock somewhere in the world, as the old saying goes."
Following her down the stairs, I couldn't help but notice that a lot more had changed about Simpson than just her name. She'd developed a real fondness for whiskey.
She took a seat on the horsehair sofa in the parlor, and I poured the drinks. "What's going to happen to Lee?" she asked.
"I'm not sure," I said, taking an old wing chair. "No one really believes she killed Kemper, but she won't retract her confession."
"It's hard to believe that someone should be punished for killing Kemper Fuquar. If anyone ever deserved killing, it was him."
Her statement sadly echoed the defense Lee clung to so hardheadedly. "The law says that someone has to pay. Lee volunteered." I watched for any reaction.
Krystal held out her glass for a refill. I did the honors and resumed my seat.
"Kemper was a piece of shit from the first time I met him, and that was twenty years ago." She sighed. "I couldn't believe it when I found out Lee had married him."
"You knew him before they married?"
"Actually, Mike knew him. They went to school together. I only met him once. But from what Mike said, Kemper could be quite charming with the ladies. He would draw them over, and Mike would benefit from the varied selection. Mike said he was very surprised when Kemper married. I suppose someone should have warned Kemper that Lee had a real talent for pissing her daddy off."
Krystal had confirmed my darkest suspicions of Kemper's motives. He'd married for Lee's money, and then when it didn't come through, he'd set out to punish her every day for the rest of her life.
Krystal reclined on the sofa, putting one leg over the back in a pose that was both girlish and provocative. "Mike can be a bastard, too, but he knows how to make money." She finished off her drink.
"That's his only talent, and the only reason I keep him around. Once my career is launched, he's history." She looked into the empty glass for a moment. "I'll have one more before I go, if you don't mind."
I didn't, and I got up and made her drink. I held up my own glass. "To Bud. I didn't know him well. Tell me about him." I was hoping she might know something that would lead me to where Bud had taken Kip and the horse.
Krystal's face softened. "Bud was all right. I took some riding lessons, hoping that there might be something there." She shook her head. "He liked to flirt, but I think he did it to aggravate the rest of his harem. If you want to know the truth, I think Carol Beth hit the nail on the head. He was in love with Lee. And that ate at Carol Beth."
"Any clue as to why Carol Beth was so jealous of Lee?"
Krystal tinkled the ice in her drink. "Lee asserted her independence. She just told her parents to kiss off, and she set about making her own life. They disinherited her and moved to Italy, and she never let it slow her down. Carol Beth has always made it off someone else. Her parents, her husband. She never stepped up to the plate and proved her own worth. I think that made her just a little bit crazy."
Krystal wasn't a psychologist, but she was smarter than the average bear, and her opinion confirmed what Harold had said.
"So what about Carol Beth and Bud?" I asked.
"Honey, she would have given up her wealth, her security, everything she had, just for a shot at Bud. I think he gave her just enough to make her crazy for him." She put her empty glass on a coaster and stood up. "Now, that's a talent more men should develop—giving a
woman just enough. Sounds like the perfect title for a new country song. I think I feel a visit by the muse coming on. I guess I'd better go back to the stimulating creative atmosphere of the Holiday Breeze. Thank God, Mike used some of his real estate connections and found me a place. I'm moving to a house this afternoon. You know, I never expected to feel like coming home, but I think I'm going to enjoy living back here in Zinnia."
"It'll be good to have you home," I said, meaning it.
She stood up. "Let's plan on spending some time together. Right now, though, I've got songs to write."
I walked her to the door and watched her drive away. I took my half-filled glass and her empty one to the kitchen sink. Watching the whiskey slip down the drain, I wondered how it would feel to have just enough of anything. It was, indeed, a great song title.
24
Dusk had fallen, and I had miles to go before I slept. Krystal's visit had made me realize one thing: like my literary hero, Kinky Friedman, I couldn't abandon a friend in need. The Kinkster would never leave Ratso or Rambam or McGovern or any of his buddies in jail. Lee was innocent, and I was going to prove it.
My investigation had focused on everything but the victim, if Kemper could be described by such a term. Cece had made a few initial phone calls and determined that Kemper was something of a bad seed growing up. I hadn't pursued that avenue, and I didn't think Coleman had, either. Kemper had lived in Sunflower County for fifteen years. It was hard to believe anything in his past could be relevant, but maybe there was something.
I found the piece of paper Cece had given me with the telephone number for Kemper's parents on it. I dialed and listened to the ringing of the phone.
A woman answered in a voice both refined and tired.
I introduced myself and waded right in. "I'm working for Lee McBride."
"The woman who killed Kemper." The statement was made without emotion.
"Yes, ma'am. Lee's an old friend of mine."
"There's nothing we can tell you," the woman said. "Don't call again, or we'll be forced to pursue legal recourse for harassment."
"Mrs. Fuquar, my friend may spend the rest of her life in prison—"
"She shouldn't be punished. Kemper set out on this path long, long ago. I'm sorry for your friend, but there's nothing we can do to help. Our son has been dead to us for many years. We know nothing about him, except that he was a bad person."
"Please think about it," I said. "Lee has a daughter, a fourteen-year-old. She needs her mother."
There was a long silence. "We haven't spoken Kemper's name in this house for nearly twenty years. We can't help you, but there is someone who may be able to. Her name is Veronica Patriquin. She's a newspaper reporter." She gave me a telephone number. "She knows things about Kemper."
The line went dead.
Veronica Patriquin turned out to be a whiskey-voiced chain-smoker who knew her territory like a shark knows a coral reef.
"Kemper Fuquar, yeah, the name rings more than a bell," she said into the phone. "I heard a rumor that he was killed."
"He's dead," I confirmed.
"Let me think." She exhaled, and I wanted a cigarette with an intense craving. "I'll have to go back to some of my files. Can you hang on? None of that stuff is on computer now."
"Sure." I settled at the kitchen table to wait.
She was back in a few minutes, and I heard her turning pages as she talked. "I remember now. He and some partners bought an old estate. They were going to renovate it, make a resort. They sunk a lot of money in it, and then the place burned."
No big alarms were going off in my head, but a few bells were tinkling. Big estate. Fire. "And there was a huge insurance policy on the place, correct?"
"That about sums it up. As I recall, there was some speculation that the fire was arson, but no charges were filed. Shortly after that, Kemper disappeared. I guess that would be about the time he moved over your way."
"I think so."
"Why are you curious about Kemper's past?" she asked.
"His wife is a friend of mine, and she's charged with his murder."
"And you're hoping to dig up enough dirt from the past to develop reasonable doubt."
"Something like that," I said.
There was a long pause. "You want a list of the other investors in the resort?"
"Sure." I got a pencil and pad from a drawer. "Shoot."
"There were three of them. Kemper, a small-time gangster named Tony LaCoco, and somebody named Mitchell Raybon. LaCoco has gone on to local fame and fortune as what passes for a true mob figure around Louisiana."
LaCoco's name stopped me dead. "Thanks, Ms. Patriquin," I said. "You've been more help than you'll ever know. By the way, how much was the insurance settlement?"
"Three million. It was a nice, tidy little scam."
"And the insurance company?"
"It's right here in the story. Let me see . . . Liberty Associates. I think they're out of business now."
"Thanks again." I hung up the phone.
I placed a call to Billy Appleton at home. Billy didn't have to talk to me, but he didn't know that. I pressed my advantage. "Coleman asked me to check and see what you'd found on the Fuquar insurance papers," I told him.
"I was about to give him a call," Billy said. "I've searched high and low. As I told him earlier, I have the original policies, which were taken out in June of 1986. I remember Lee wanted policies that would provide replacement values, but. . . Anyway, the policy will pay something toward the barn that burned. ..." His voice faded away.
"And the horse?"
"Ah, no. There was nothing on the horse." He cleared his throat. "I wish I could say differently, Sarah Booth. I know how much that animal meant to Lee and her financial future. I called the home office just to see if maybe a policy had been filed through another agent. Nothing."
"You're sure?"
"Positive. We don't normally insure horses. If there was a policy, the home office would have known."
"And Kemper? What about his revised life insurance policy?"
"Ah," he cleared his throat. "Ah, there's a snag there. Ah, murder is sort of a different matter."
"As in?" I wanted to stick him with a cattle prod.
"There's a reluctance to pay off a claim when there's a charge of murder. See, the policy is designed to provide financial compensation in cases of natural death, acts of God . . . See, murder is very different. Especially murder to obtain the insurance."
"Kip was the beneficiary, not Lee."
"Very true," he said softly. "Ah, but Kip is dead. Lee now benefits."
I'd known Billy since he was six years old. In the first grade he'd gone through the desks in the entire classroom and stolen the red crayon from everyone's pack. He'd hoarded them in a cigar box, taking them out one at a time and sharpening them until there was only a box full of crayon curls.
"Are you saying the policies are invalid?"
"The home office makes those decisions, Sarah Booth." His words were rushed. "I'm only an agent. I'm not a policy maker."
"What's the good of insurance if it doesn't pay off?" I asked him pointedly.
"It's not supposed to be an inducement to murder."
"Lee didn't kill Kemper."
"No matter what you think, Sarah Booth, Lee has confessed."
"And if I prove someone else, or something else, killed Kemper?"
"That's another story."
"You'll be hearing from me."
"You'd better stop threatening me. I sell insurance policies, that's what I do. I don't make up the rules and I don't enforce them." He slammed the phone down.
Puzzled by Billy's panicked behavior, I dialed Tinkie. I didn't recognize her voice when she answered the phone.
"Oh, Sarah Booth," she said through a stuffy nose. "I was trying to get up the nerve to call you. I don't think I'm cut out for this private eye business after all. I'd better resign."
"Tinkie?" In the last few months, I'd grown to admire Tin
kie in a number of ways, and a big one was her commitment to seeing something through. She wasn't a quitter. "Is Oscar giving you grief?" Her husband had a very narrow view of the Richmond family role in Delta society. I'd been blown away when he'd allowed her to become my partner in the first place.
"Oh, no, Oscar says I shouldn't quit." She sniffled. "It's just. . . Kip." She choked back a sob.
"Don't quit on me, Tinkie. I need you." I needed to tell her Kip was alive, but I had wanted to do it in person so I could impress on her that she had to keep it top secret. Tinkie had many valuable assets as a partner, but keeping a secret was not one of her strengths.
There was a long sigh. "Really?"
"Now more than ever. Lee needs us both, even if she won't admit it. I need you to do something." This was one she'd like. "Find out exactly what Mary Louise, Elizabeth, and Susannah did with Bud Lynch."
"Did?" Tinkie paused. "You mean did?"
"That's exactly what I mean."
"Why?"
"I have a theory, but I don't want to prejudice your investigation by saying it. Just find out."
"Okay," Tinkie said slowly. "I can do this."
"I'm certain you can. The only person who ever doubts your ability is you, Tinkie. You're the best partner a P.I. could ask for."
"Thanks, Sarah Booth." Tinkie lowered her voice. "What about Carol Beth and Bud?"
"Leave Carol Beth to me," I said with some malice.
"Oscar heard up at the bank that Benny is filing for divorce. And there is an ironclad prenup. If Benny can prove infidelity, Carol Beth won't get a penny from him."
"Oscar told you that?" Ever since Tinkie had begun to pump Oscar during nooners, he had become a gushing fount of informative tidbits.
"Oscar said Benny may be mild-mannered on the surface, but he's a barracuda when he's protecting his assets."
"You do good work, Tinkie."
"I seem to have a little talent, don't I?"
"Absolutely. Call me as soon as you have anything," I said.
The ruins of the stud barn were visible from the county road. Carol Beth's big dually was parked at the main house, but I knew she'd be in one of the barns. I parked at the house, and took great care in walking quietly down to the main facility. Whatever Carol Beth was up to, I wanted to find out as much as possible before she saw me.
Sarah Booth Delaney Page 79