Sarah Booth Delaney

by Sarah Booth Delaney 01-06 (lit)

  "He caught her in the act?" Talk about getting caught with her pants down.

  "It's in the book, and there's not been a lawsuit filed, so I gather it must be true. Charlie Brewer followed a trail of grass cuttings and clothes to the pool cabana and caught them on one of last season's lawn chairs."

  I could only shake my head. "The weed-eater boy? Would it have been more socially acceptable if he was the pool boy?"

  "Make fun if you want, but it gets worse. According to the passage in the book, Lorilee was so taken with the boy's vigorous 'mulching' that she started a college fund for him. He was fifteen at the time of the affair."

  "Damn. That's illegal, isn't it? Talk about a motive for murder. And Lorilee was so busy trying to point the finger of guilt at others."

  Tinkie nodded. "Quentin as much as said that Lorilee was a desperate thirty-four-year-old who had to pay a child for sex. Desperate doesn't begin to do it justice."

  Such a portrayal certainly made Lorilee Brewer look desperate, old, and over-the-hill. But it raised an even more interesting question. "Did Quentin have it in for Lorilee for some reason? They weren't in the same class. Lorilee's at least ten years older."

  "I can't answer that. But Lorilee also had plenty of motive to want to hurt Quentin. Lorilee had managed to keep all of this hush-hush until the book came out. Now I hear her husband is talking divorce. Lorilee will be out in the cold without alimony or any job skills."

  "The weed-eater boy? And she was paying him? Lorilee isn't so ugly she'd have to pay to get laid."

  "Not on the outside, at any rate." Tinkie pushed her plate away. Beneath her stylish brown corduroy slacks, her tummy had taken on the slightest hint of a bulge.

  "I've got to read that book." I'd have to dedicate an evening to go through it.

  "Sarah Booth, your aversion to the written word is appalling."

  "I don't have an aversion to reading. I love mysteries, but I don't like nonfiction. This isn't really nonfiction, though. It's more like an evening at The Club where everyone talks about each other's dirty secrets."

  She shook her head. "Let's just say that Lorilee has as much motive as anyone else for killing Quentin."

  Millie finished her work and came to the table with something in her hand. Before I could ask, she spread the pages of a national tabloid, the Galaxy Gazette, on the table in front of us. "Look at this." Her finger stabbed at a huge tabloid headline: DELTA DARLINGS DISH DEATH.

  "Zinnia has made the big time, but the alliteration sucks," I said. "I'm sure Cece will be amused."

  "Read the article," Millie insisted.

  "Sarah Booth is typographically challenged," Tinkie said as she scanned the story. "Why, this paints Allison as the killer. The only person who even tries to show sympathy is Virgie. At least, they interviewed her."

  "What does she say?" I couldn't read because Tinkie's and Millie's heads were in the way.

  "She urges people not to judge Allison until all the facts are in. 'It isn't ladylike to judge,' she says."

  "I think our next stop should be a visit to Virgie." I pulled my billfold out of my purse. "It might be good to get her take on the suspects we have so far, since they're all her girls."

  Tinkie picked up the last corn-bread muffin. "If we're going to have to see Gertrude Stromm, I'm taking provisions. If she gets half a chance, she'll lock us in the basement."

  'That house doesn't have a basement," I pointed out. It was built off the ground, with a crawl space.

  "For all you know, Gertrude's out there right now digging a basement." Tinkie popped the muffin into her purse and led the way to the cash register.

  Gertrude was busy serving tea in the conservatory when we arrived, and Tinkie, with the help of a forty-dollar tip, managed to get one of the maids to tell us Virgie's room number. Glancing over our shoulders to make sure Gertrude hadn't spotted us, we hurried down the hallway to Room 12.

  "Do you remember sneaking through Mrs. Hathaway's yard?" I asked Tinkie.

  "Of course. We were always terrified her Doberman would bite us." She slowed enough to look at me. "We're having exactly the same feeling now, aren't we? And it's only Gertrude."

  "I'd rather face that Doberman than Gertrude Stromm," I said. We rounded the corner, and Tinkie knocked on the door of Virgie's room.

  She answered it quickly, almost as if she'd been standing right beside the door. Her pearl gray suit was rumpled, and she looked worn and tired.

  "What can I do for you?" she asked, forcing a smile to her face.

  "How about a cup of coffee?" Tinkie, always the perceptive one, made the offer. "Sarah Booth and I would like to chat with you, but you look done in, Mrs. Carrington."

  "I am tired." She straightened her shoulders. "This whole thing has been hard on me. I'm fond of Allison, and I hate to see what she's being put through."

  "There's a lovely table out in the garden," Tinkie said.

  "Sarah Booth, why don't you escort Virgie there, and I'll stop by the kitchen and order us all some coffee."

  "Sure." I offered Virgie my arm and was surprised when she actually leaned a bit of weight on it. Watching her command performance at the funeral, I'd forgotten she was in her sixties. Now, she looked every bit her age.

  "The wedding was going to be beautiful." She stared straight ahead as we walked along the polished pine floor. "I didn't approve of it. I mean my entire life has been focused on preparing my girls for marriage to a suitable man; I couldn't approve. But when I saw Quentin and Allison together, I couldn't deny what they felt for each other. I let my heart rule my head."

  "That's not always a bad thing to do." I felt at a loss. Of all the people I imagined I might comfort, Virgie Carrington wasn't one of them.

  "If my girls start letting their hearts rule, the structure of our society will erode. Why, look at you, Sarah Booth. You're a perfect example of that."

  She'd almost won my sympathy—until that comment. "Right. I'm such a danger to the fabric of society."

  Her grip on my arm tightened. "Deny it if you wish, but had you married properly, Dahlia House would be in excellent repair. You'd be planning day care for your children and the menu for your Thanksgiving dinner, not running around chasing murderers."

  "That might be true, Mrs. Carrington, but what you haven't taken into account is my wishes. I don't wish to be married to someone for the sake of security and children."

  She stopped and looked at me, her pale eyes amazed. "My dear, those are the only two reasons to get married. Why else would you even consider it?"

  "For love?" I couldn't help myself. I made it a question at the end instead of the declarative I intended.

  "Love? What poppycock!"

  "It's become a popular concept in the last half of the twentieth century." I couldn't help myself. She'd insulted me and was now treating me as if I had a mental disorder.

  "Have you bothered to check the statistics on these so-called love matches?"

  I didn't say anything.

  "Do that, Sarah Booth, before you go making such bold statements. That's one of your problems, you know. You step out front before you realize what's happening. If you aren't careful, you're going to wind up in trouble."

  "I didn't mean to offend you." I might not have a diploma from the Carrington School for Weil-Bred Ladies, but my mother had taught me respect for those older than I.

  "The divorce rate today is close to seventy-five percent. Of the people who stay married, many of them have more at stake than simply romance. Properties, lifestyles, investments, the concept of building a life together instead of randomly falling into bed—that's the glue of a good marriage."

  Thank God we were at the back steps. I helped her to the table in the shade of a magnificent oak. The garden was a riot of yellow, orange, amber, and garnet mums. "I'll check on Tinkie." I started to turn away.

  "Sit down, Sarah Booth. I won't fuss anymore." She sighed. "I'm an old lady, and I find that I grow quarrelsome. I'm sorry."

  I
took a seat across from her. Her face was pale, except for her cheeks, which were flushed. She'd gotten upset, and it was my duty to calm her. "How many girls have graduated from your school?"

  "When we first opened, the school was small. Our original class was ten girls. It was the height of the youth rebellion. Marijuana was being grown on the fringes of the cotton fields. Young girls were throwing away their brassieres, their morals, and their bodies. Society was under siege. I was a young woman of twenty-seven, and I saw what was happening. I knew I had to fight against it."

  I glanced toward the house, praying Tinkie would appear. This was a conversation I didn't want to have with Virgie. We were polar opposites, and another clash of values would only upset her further. "Quentin and Allison graduated when?"

  "Seven years ago." Her face clouded over. "Who could have foreseen all of this?"

  "No one. Not even you." That was true. There was nothing to be gained by Virgie kicking herself over something she couldn't possibly have stopped.

  "Quentin had an element of spite in her nature. I remember one time when she was visiting Umbria—she was just a child then—she took a dislike to the young man Umbria was seeing and put Red Devil lye in his shoes."

  "That sounds a little extreme."

  "Quentin lived on the edge. The book is mean-spirited. What she did to her own family, I don't understand it. What did she hope to gain? The book has a limited audience. No one cares about any of it except for those in the immediate area. It's caused a sensation now, but in six months no one will remember it."

  "The book must be true, though. Otherwise, someone would have sued."

  "There is factual truth and emotional truth, Sarah Booth. The sooner you learn that, the easier your life will become."

  I knew what she meant, but as a private investigator, I dealt with the facts. The emotional shadings were another matter.

  At last I saw Tinkie carrying a tray of cups, condiments, and a pot of coffee. There was also a bottle of expensive brandy. Good thinking, Tinkie. I needed a shot, if no one else did.

  She set the tray down and poured for all of us, adding a dollop of brandy to each cup of coffee. "You look like you could use a little pick-me-up," she told Virgie.

  To my surprise, Virgie accepted the brandy-laced coffee without complaint. She drank it down, and Tinkie prepared another.

  "What's the story on Lorilee Brewer?" I asked.

  "She was a Frazier before she married." Virgie sipped her coffee. "She had a vicious streak a mile wide. Most of the other girls despised her, and to be honest, I never thought she'd land a man. But Charlie Brewer married her. I dare say, he'll be divorcing her after everything Quentin revealed in the book. No man wants to be shamed like that. In many ways, men are so very fragile. It's a woman's duty to protect them from this type of shame."

  "Lorilee said some vicious things about Marilyn," Tinkie said. "I can't imagine why they hang around together."

  "Since Quentin revealed Marilyn's plans to sell her property for the landfill, Marilyn doesn't have a friend left in the world. All of her neighbors felt betrayed. I guess Lorilee is the best she can do." Virgie sighed. "It's so hard to watch my girls go wrong."

  "Do you think either of those women could have killed Quentin?" I asked.

  "When Marilyn was one of my students, she was sweet. A little withdrawn. She's changed. But if I had to pick one or the other, I'd say Lorilee. Then again, Marilyn lost a lot because of what Quentin and Allison revealed." She shook her head. "The truth is, either one could do it."

  "Who else?" Tinkie asked.

  Virgie put her empty cup on the table. "I'd certainly put Umbria at the top of the list. And that low-life husband of hers, Rutherford Clark. Why Franklin and Caledonia allowed that marriage, I'll never understand. Now that's something worth looking into." She slowly rose to her feet.

  "I'm sorry, but I need to go and lie down. I hope you'll excuse me. And Tinkie, thank you for the refreshments."

  When I made an effort to help her, she waved me back into my seat. "I'm not helpless yet," she said, "but I am tired. Good day, ladies."

  13

  We left The Gardens and slowed for school traffic. Tinkie was pensive behind the wheel of the Caddy. "Do you really think the murderer could be a woman?" she asked. "Quentin's murder was so brutal."

  "You're the one who made the list of names from the book. Almost everyone on the list is female."

  "I've been giving it some thought. Quentin's murder seems to be something a man would concoct. I mean, most women wouldn't think of suffocating someone in a mud hole."

  That was true. But there was the note. "Dragging the family's name through the mud ..." I pondered the genderlessness of it. "Could be a woman or a man."

  "We should go and look for those other notes."

  Tinkie was right. I checked my watch. We still had two or three hours of daylight. "Let's go to Oxford."

  Never one to miss a chance to show off her driving skills, Tinkie whipped a U-turn in the middle of Main Street. The school traffic deputy blew her whistle and started running toward us, white gloves waving frantically in the air.

  "Go!" I urged Tinkie. The traffic cop was faster than she looked. "Go!"

  Tinkie hit the gas, and the Caddy jumped forward. I looked back to see the cop shaking her fist at us.

  Tinkie was laughing as we left Zinnia behind and headed up the highway to Oxford, Mississippi, and the rental house where Allison and Quentin had lived.

  The topography of the Delta changed as we moved eastward across the state. The flat land gave way to hills and rises. Development was everywhere. When I'd gone to college, the drive to the university had been isolated. Now there were homes and businesses everywhere. I saw the death notice for the thousand-acre farms writ large on the canvas of the earth. Land would soon be more valuable for subdivisions than for growing things. Factory farms, where cattle and hogs were penned in squalid feedlots, were already replacing the sprawling grassland ranches.

  "You're mighty quiet." Tinkie kept her gaze on the highway in front of her.

  "I've been stuck in the past because what I see in the future terrifies me."

  "Coleman?"

  "No." I smiled. "Not Coleman but another lost love."

  "Hamilton?"

  "The land."

  "Oscar and I were talking just last week. Politicians associate progress with growth, when it's exactly the opposite. If we could freeze the development in Sunflower County, in ten years we'd have something really special—a town that isn't jammed to the seams with people."

  "Oscar said this?" My understanding of bankers was that they encouraged development, because it meant more people borrowing more money.

  "Sarah Booth, you consistently underestimate Oscar and yourself."

  I was saved from a reply because we hit the outskirts of Oxford, Mississippi. It is a picturesque town that had developed around the University of Mississippi, or Ole Miss, as it is fondly known. Oxford was also the home of William Faulkner. Tinkie had accused me of not liking to read, but it wasn't true. In my youth I adored Faulkner and Miss Welty. In the past year I'd added books by Larry Brown and Brad Watson to Dahlia House's library shelves.

  We passed the square, which housed, brilliantly enough, Square Books. Oxford had grown around a central courthouse square. William Faulkner had hung his hat here, and a lively group of writers of all genres now lived in the area. Many of the authors hung out at the bookstore and taught, when they could, at Ole Miss to supplement their incomes. The mystique of Faulkner could still be found in the shade of majestic oaks and along a rural dirt road.

  The house that Allison and Quentin had shared was on the north side of town, a cottage really, tucked among second growth pines and oaks. The yard was a jungle. A storm that had come through in September had knocked trees down, and they remained partially draped across the driveway, which wound through the winter-bare trees and vines. In the summer, the place would be hidden by thick leaves.

 
"This is a little on the creepy side," Tinkie said as she maneuvered the car around a fallen pine. "It's been two months since the storm, yet debris is everywhere."

  "Quentin had been on a book tour." I had to suppress a tiny shudder myself. The place was creepy. It was a strange blend of the witch's cottage in Hansel and Gretel and a Tolkienesque hobbit's hole. We pulled to a stop beneath the lattice-covered portico.

  "We didn't bring a key," Tinkie said.

  I could read her desire to leave on her face. But we'd driven hours to look for the threatening notes. "I'll go in a window." I got out and walked to the side door. To my surprise, the knob turned easily, and the door pushed open. "It isn't locked."

  Tinkie reluctantly got out of the car and followed me up the steps and into the kitchen. I stopped. The room was painted barn red, with white fixtures and white trim on the windows. Lacy curtains fluttered in a breeze that blew through a crack. An old white farm table with four oak chairs stood at the center of the room. Copper pots gleamed on the walls, along with pen-and-ink drawings, done by Quentin, I noted.

  "This is very nice," Tinkie said.

  She was so close, I could feel her breath on my shoulder blades.

  "I would never have suspected they were such traditionalists." She stepped forward and touched a vase full of dead flowers on the table. They'd been spider mums. "They were happy here, weren't they?"

  I nodded. "Let's find those notes." We were trespassing on a past that was dead. The sensation made me uncomfortable, and I realized that this was what Tinkie had not wanted to feel. The life Quentin and Allison had shared was over. This was the last vestige of it. We had tainted it with our presence.

  "I'll take the study." Tinkie scooted past me, leaving the bedroom for me.

  "Thanks," I called after her as I moved down the hallway to the bedroom. The bed was made, covered with heirloom quilts. On the lavender walls magnificent Wyatt Waters artwork hung beside black-and-white photographs. I went through the bedside table drawers and then the bureau and highboy drawers. There were no notes, but I did find what appeared to be several digital camera diskettes. I slipped them into my pocket and went to find Tinkie.