Sarah Booth Delaney

by Sarah Booth Delaney 01-06 (lit)

  "I don't have any shoes," I countered.

  "You get dressed. I'll find some suitable shoes." She marched past me into the house. I was defeated. I had the choice of surrendering with honor or whining. Only because I figured Jitty was eavesdropping did I choose the former. Carrying the dress bag, I marched behind Tinkie to my doom.

  An hour later, we were sitting in the formal den at The Gardens B&B. I was wearing a Donna Karan designer suit and holding a cup of tea—Earl Grey—which looked like thin milk. I had no intention of drinking it, especially since Gertrude Stromm had made it. Hemlock was the word that came to my mind. Tinkie had no such apprehensions. She sipped her tea and chatted with Virgie Carrington about the desperate need in society for more Sunday brunches.

  "What would you view as the perfect menu for a brunch?" Virgie suddenly asked me.

  Her blue grey eyes were shrewd and a perfect match for the silk dress she wore. Her pearls had the sheen of age, as if they were family heirlooms. I knew her question was a test. "I don't think the menu matters as long as the Bloody Marys and mimosas flow freely," I answered, ignoring the daggers Tinkie shot at me.

  To my surprise, Virgie laughed. The iron maiden had a sense of humor. "I remember your mother, Sarah Booth. She was unconventional, but always with kindness. I see you're a page from the same book."

  It was a compliment I couldn't ignore. "Thank you, Miss Carrington. I didn't realize you knew my mother."

  "Everyone knew her. And everyone adored her."

  "Not everyone," I said.

  "Everyone I knew," Virgie insisted. "I don't find it peculiar that you've become a private investigator, Sarah Booth, but Tinkie is another matter." She turned to my partner. "I can't believe Oscar has agreed to this."

  Tinkie's smile never slipped. "Well, Virgie, Oscar didn't really have a choice. I bought my freedom a long time ago."

  The blade was presented with such deftness; at first, I didn't recognize the sharpness. Virgie surprised me again by laughing. "In a way, I'm glad your parents chose not to send you to my school, Tinkie. You would have been a real problem."

  I saw that the conversation was going south fast. "Miss Carrington, as we mentioned, we've been hired to help prove Allison's innocence. We're hoping you can help us."

  "How?"

  "Quentin's book has upset a number of people, many of them your former students."

  "The book is vile. Quentin has ignored every commandment that I teach, but the one most offensive is the violation of family. She must have broken Franklin's and Caledonia's hearts."

  "Not to mention Umbria's," Tinkie said smoothly. She'd regained her equilibrium.

  "Poor Umbria." Virgie poured more tea for Tinkie and herself. I guarded my cool cup. "She's had a rough life, thanks to Quentin."

  "Tell us about Quentin," I urged.

  Virgie leaned back in her chair. Her posture was perfect. "Quentin was perhaps the smartest girl I'd ever had at the school. She could learn anything. Algebra, literature, languages. She was fluent in Spanish, French, Italian, and German. She had the ability to read something once and to own it. She had such potential."

  "Did she always want to write?"

  Her laughter this time was without humor. "Writing was the tool of revenge for Quentin. She didn't intend to make her mark in the literary world. She intended to settle some scores."

  "But why?"

  "Can't you guess? Once she let it be known that she wasn't interested in men, the other girls were merciless."

  "Was she outed?" Tinkie asked.

  Virgie shook her head. "That's one thing I never understood. Quentin told the girls herself. It was as if she defied them. She announced one day that she was a lesbian and that she thought they were all stupid cows—her words— headed for the butcher block of marriage. She told them she was going to inherit a considerable fortune, and she'd never be saddled with a man to please. In essence, she rubbed their noses in it. In return, the girls ganged up on her and tormented her. And Allison."

  The picture she painted was unpleasant. "Do you think any of the other girls were capable of hurting Quentin?" I asked.

  Virgie put her teacup on the coffee table. "Have you read her book?"

  "Only a few chapters."

  "Read on. Though my girls are well trained, they're human. Quentin attacked numerous families with malice. Those who live by the sword, die by the sword, Tinkie dear. It's a Biblical prediction that's true today."

  "And Allison?" I asked.

  "Allison couldn't harm a fly," Virgie said. "Whatever I can do to help her, I will."

  "She wanted some say in planning Quentin's funeral," Tinkie said.

  "I'll stop by the jail today and speak with her." Virgie rose. "Now, ladies, I have an appointment with the funeral director. I have much to do today."

  We rose and shook hands. As we walked out of the B&B and into the November sunshine, I could only think about getting out of the clothes Tinkie had forced on me.

  6

  Tinkie sat at my kitchen table as I made chicken salad sandwiches on wheat bread and poured two glasses of iced tea. To avoid another brown meal, I added a sprig of parsley to her plate.

  "Virgie gave us some good leads." She bent to pick up a square of paper from beneath the table. "What's this?"

  I hesitated. "A card from Humphrey Tatum."

  She opened and scanned it, her eyes widening as she read. "Are you going to play Scarlett to his Rhett?" she asked. "I'll bet the two of you could make Atlanta burn for the second time."

  "Absolutely not." I pulled the gift box out from the cabinet and tossed it onto the table. "Subtlety isn't Humphrey's strong suit."

  Tinkie dove into the package like a kid at Christmas. Her squeal was one of wicked pleasure. "Sarah Booth, he realizes that red is your color." She held up the teddy and matching slippers. "You could bring a man to his knees in this outfit."

  I took it from her hands and put it back in the box. "It's going right back to him."

  "We could have delivered it ourselves this morning," she said, with a sly grin. "He's staying at The Gardens. Were you afraid you might be tempted?"

  "It seems everyone is staying at Gertrude's place. She must be making a fortune off Quentin's murder."

  "It's not like Zinnia has a Paradise Resort," Tinkie said, tapping the gift box with her Classic Red fingernails. "Why don't you at least go to dinner with Humphrey?"

  "I think he's made it plain that he isn't interested in food or conversation."

  "A little liaison with Humphrey might help your heart heal. Sometimes, a bit of uncomplicated fun is the ticket." There was sincere concern in her voice.

  "Did you take a look at the outfit? I wouldn't call that uncomplicated. I'd never figure out the straps, hooks, and laces. I'd need a maid to help me get into it."

  Tinkie bit into her sandwich. "Very funny, Sarah Booth. So what do you have planned for the rest of the day?"

  "A horseback ride and then set up some appointments with the women who were at Booking It."

  "I've made my own list of suspects." She reached into the pocket of black slacks that hugged her petite figure, brought out a piece of paper, and handed it to me.

  Her neat handwriting scrolled down the page. "There are eighty-four names." She'd conveniently numbered them.

  "All taken from Quentin's book, and all with plenty of motive to want her dead."

  I put the list on the table. It was overwhelming in a way. Most of the names were high society, too. Not the most cooperative element in a murder investigation. Often people with money and social power felt they were insulated from the law.

  "I've put a red check by the names I think we should investigate first," Tinkie said.

  "A little organizational nut you picked up from Oscar?"

  My teasing was good-natured. Tinkie's mind was often more practical and organized than mine. I sat down with my iced tea and read through the list.

  The entire McGee family was listed with red checks. Aunts, uncles
, cousins. "All of them?"

  "They'll all be greatly impacted by the inheritance of the trust," Tinkie pointed out. "Not to mention that they were dissed in print."

  "Lorilee Brewer?" I pointed to another red-checked name.

  "She was at the book signing Saturday. That's opportunity, and the motive is in the book."

  "The name is vaguely familiar. Something unpleasant?"

  "She was behind us at Ole Miss, but word from the sorority sisters is that she was a legendary bitch!" Tinkie swallowed the last bite of her sandwich. "Lorilee had good reason to want Quentin dead. Quentin went straight for the jugular when she printed that Lorilee was sexually desperate."

  "Sexually desperate?"

  Tinkie rolled her eyes. "I don't have all the details, but you can read as well as I can. Look her up in the book, Sarah Booth. See what Quentin wrote."

  'Tinkie, I find it difficult to believe someone would kill over what's printed in a book."

  "Lorilee was at the book signing Saturday afternoon and she stayed overnight at The Gardens and she has a big four-wheel-drive pickup. I think that makes her a superior suspect."

  I thought about the crime scene. By the time I'd arrived, several vehicles had gone in and out, so I couldn't say for certain about tire treads, but Gordon might know more.

  "Lorilee could have stolen Allison's shoes from her room at The Gardens. She could have done the whole thing."

  Tinkie was right. "Is she still in town?"

  "She's staying for the funeral."

  "How did you find that out?" I was curious. Tinkie had her ways, and I was always impressed with them.

  "I called Gertrude Stromm." She smiled sweetly. "From Oscar's office at the bank. She was eager to cooperate with me."

  "You're very bad, Tinkie."

  "I know. I learned it from you."

  Glancing down the list, I saw another name I'd heard before. "Marilyn Jenkins?"

  Tinkie nodded. "If you'd ever take the time to read the book, you'd find that almost every prominent Delta family has been honored by inclusion. Marilyn, too."

  I had a vague memory of tragedy striking Marilyn Jenkins in the last few years, but I couldn't put my mental finger on it. "Didn't something awful happen to her back in the nineties?"

  "Her mother was killed in that freak rock slide in that exclusive neighborhood in Birmingham, Alabama. She was showing a house or something like that when half a mountain tumbled down on top of her and crushed her flat, but that wasn't how Marilyn got into the book."

  Tinkie wanted me to beg, and I obliged. "What got her in the book?"

  "Quentin dug up the fact that Marilyn had entered into secret negotiations to sell her Rankin County property for a toxic waste landfill. She's ruined in her neighborhood! The gossip is that the neighbors have formed a tomato squad, and whenever they see Marilyn, they pelt her with rotten tomatoes."

  "Good lord, Tinkie. From what you're saying, half the state's in the damn book." I had a sudden thought. "Am I in it?"

  Her look was knowing. "You aren't in the index, Sarah Booth, but if Quentin had spoken with me, I would have given her a few of your more interesting biographical details. I think your romance with Hamilton Garrett V would have made fascinating reading."

  The memory of those few days with Hamilton made me blush, but I wasn't worried. Tinkie would never do a single thing to hurt me. "My point is that almost everyone we know could be a suspect."

  "I haven't had a chance to read the whole book yet, but whatever else you say about Quentin, she was a damn good detective. She dug up the dirt on everyone."

  "She hurt a lot of people."

  Tinkie stood up. "Enough procrastinating. We need to get to work." She took the list and tore it in half. "Sound fair?"

  "More than." The McGee family was at the top of my half of the list.

  "I'm going to stop by and talk to Cece before I tackle my names," Tinkie said. "Want me to return that little nightie to Humphrey?"

  "Be my guest." I was amused. Tinkie was more interested in Humphrey's sex games than I was. "It might be a little big on you, Tink, but—"

  "Oscar would never approve," she said drolly. "He doesn't share his money or his wife."

  "A good motto to live by." I pulled a map of Mississippi out of the kitchen drawer. "Let's check in with each other around eight."

  "Fine by me." She whistled up Chablis and left with the dog under one arm and the gift box under the other.

  Before Jitty could cinch herself into another gorgeous French outfit, I darted out of the house. Reveler seemed eager for a ride, and we set off at a brisk trot, paralleling the road in front of Dahlia House. It had occurred to me more than once how lucky I was that cotton farmers didn't feel the need to fence. I had vast expanses of land to ride without the worry of wire and gates.

  A car slowed behind me, and I signaled Reveler to walk as Harold eased closer. The Porsche was a beautiful machine, but he was right. It didn't really suit him. He was too dapper for a racing convertible.

  "I was looking for you," he said.

  I checked my watch. The bank was open; therefore, Harold should have been at his desk. "What's wrong?"

  "Gordon stopped by the bank first thing this morning."

  I eased Reveler to a stop. "For what purpose?"

  "To ask a few more questions about my argument with Quentin. It would seem there was another witness to my death threat to Quentin at The Club."

  "I'll stop by and talk to Gordon today," I said. "He has to question you, Harold, but it doesn't mean he suspects you."

  "I want to help clear Allison's name."

  Now that was a surprising twist. "Okay. But why?"

  "I was thinking about it this morning, after Gordon left. It's a terrible feeling to be accused of something. For Allison, it has to be a million times worse. This was someone she loved, someone she planned to marry. I don't believe she did it, and I want to help."

  "Without violating any of your banker ethics, could you find out the financial status of the Tatum family?"

  "They don't bank with us, so I can make a few discreet calls."

  "That would be a big help."

  "Anything else?"

  I shook my head.

  "Sarah Booth, you should know that Humphrey Tatum was at Playin' the Bones last night, telling folks that he was smitten by you."

  Gossip is the lifeblood of a small town. "He can say whatever he wants, but it doesn't make it true."

  "He's a little peculiar, but he's smart." He hesitated. "I've heard he can be very seductive."

  "Once he finds out I don't have any money, he'll move his interest elsewhere."

  He studied me for a moment, and I wondered what he was thinking. "Just keep your guard up."

  He eased the Porsche past me and waited until he was far ahead to press hard on the gas. The little car shot forward in a blur of power.

  After a shower and a change of clothes, I picked up my purse and keys and headed to the courthouse. There were a few things I wanted to check with Gordon.

  There is little cold weather in Sunflower County, and none in November. Brisk days can happen, but not often. Thanksgiving, which was just around the bend, often brought weather warm enough for shorts. Ninety-five percent humidity and temperatures above seventy made it difficult to be festive. I dreamed of snow as I drove past the fallow cotton fields.

  The statue of Johnny Reb on the courthouse lawn looked a little sad. A committee had formed to demand that the statue be removed, saying it was offensive. I couldn't look at the worn bronzed face of the "every soldier" and see anything offensive. I saw sadness and loss and bitter disappointment. The statue didn't glorify the war that had torn my country apart, but it did honor the sacrifice of many families. My idea was to add other statues, not to destroy what had always been a part of my childhood.

  I walked into the sheriff's office and looked around. It was empty. Coleman had fired Rinda Stonecypher, and no one had been hired to replace her.

 
"Gordon?" I called as I walked into the office and slipped behind the counter where the jail docket lay. "Gordon?"

  It seemed no one was home. The door to Coleman's office was open. Gordon hadn't moved in, which I thought was a wise decision on his part. It was one thing for him to act like sheriff in Coleman's absence, but it was another to try and take his office.

  From the doorway, I could see a sheaf of paperwork still on the desk and a small, framed photograph. I walked to the desk, feeling very much like the intruder I was. I picked up the frame and turned it around. It was a picture of cotton fields and, far at the back of the horizon, a horse and rider skimming over the fields. No one else could possibly have recognized me. I put the picture down.

  "Can I help you?"

  I looked up, guilty as a felon, at Gordon standing in the doorway.

  "Any word from Coleman?" I asked. I didn't know how much Gordon knew about my feelings for his boss, but he was astute. He certainly knew there was something between us.

  "He called about an hour ago."

  "He did?" I sounded too eager.

  "He's coming back. Thursday. For the board of supervisors meeting."

  "Is he coming back to work?"

  "You'll have to ask him." Gordon stepped out of the doorway and went to his desk out front.

  I followed him like a puppy. "Did he say how Connie was feeling?"

  Gordon bent his head for some paperwork. "He didn't say. I don't mean to be rude, but those are things you should take up with him, not me."

  I felt a flush touch my cheeks. Gordon was absolutely right. I'd gone all over town asking questions about Coleman and his personal business. Coleman knew my phone number. If he had something to tell me, he would have called. "Thanks, Gordon. I only need one more thing. Did you match the prints at the murder scene with Allison's shoes?"

  He nodded. "A perfect match. Those shoes were in that mud hole. Now if you can convince me Allison wasn't in the shoes, we'll be getting somewhere."

  I thought about what he was offering. "Do you think Allison killed Quentin?"