Sarah Booth Delaney

by Sarah Booth Delaney 01-06 (lit)

  Since I wasn't in a hurry, I watched her flip through them twice, stopping to study certain pictures as tears dripped off her chin.

  "I miss her," she said, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. "When you find the person who killed her, it won't change that she's gone. I'll still be suffering."

  "I know." And I did. Truth couldn't undo loss.

  "What leads have you found?" Allison asked.

  I told her about the notes and the other deaths. She was an intelligent woman, and right behind comprehension was concern. "Then the killer is still out there."

  I nodded. "That would be true."

  "Who is it?"

  "I don't know," I had to admit. "Were Quentin's notes mailed to her?"

  "Yes. Out of Memphis."

  I jumped at that. "Memphis?"

  She nodded. "I remember distinctly, because we both tried to figure out who we knew in Memphis who might threaten us."

  "And who did you come up with?"

  "The Loper girls, but the first note came before Quentin even considered putting Belinda and Jolene in her book."

  "You feel the notes weren't book related?"

  She thought about it. 'Yes and no."

  "Go on."

  'Yes, because they each refer to paying for what's been written, and no because they weren't linked to anything specific involving the book."

  "And you don't believe Jolene Loper wrote them?"

  She shook her head. "No. Not the Jolene Loper I remember. Her idea of a note is one of those tacky cards with the words already printed."

  I touched her hand on the bars. "We are trying, Allison."

  "My brother says he's impressed with you."

  I dropped my gaze. "Humphrey has a unique way of showing his interest."

  "I know. He's worked so hard to prove he's a deviant that he may have convinced himself." Her gaze held mine.

  "But I remember him differently. I was younger. He was gone most of the time, but when he did come home, he would smile at me, and I felt like someone loved me."

  I didn't have to ask Allison if she'd heard from her parents. Dewayne would have told me had the Tatums visited. She was alone, except for Humphrey.

  "The reading of the will is at ten."

  "Are you going?" she asked.

  I nodded. "Me or Tinkie." I didn't intend to tell her that my heart lay at the board of supervisors meeting, where Coleman was due to show up.

  "If you see Miss Carrington, would you tell her to please stop by and see me?"

  "Sure. She's your biggest defender."

  She handed me the photos. "Give these to her. She took them. I told her she had a good eye."

  I took the photos and put them in my purse. I'd drop them by The Gardens after the reading of the will. Right now, I wanted to find Coleman before either meeting began.

  Dewayne unlocked the door at my knock, and I checked Coleman's office before I left. He was nowhere to be found. Outside, the sky had begun to cloud over. November storms were often cold and damp. I buttoned my jacket and headed to the roadster. There was one place Coleman might be where I could talk to him. I followed my instinct and drove to Opal Lake.

  It was a much better ride on horseback, but I didn't have time to go home and saddle Reveler. I drove fast, the dead leaves skittering over the pavement behind me as I blasted down the highway.

  Opal Lake was a small, round lake tucked in a state recreation area. It was a parking place for high school kids, and for a few of us older adults. It was not an official rendezvous location for me and Coleman, but more than once we'd found each other there.

  This time I was in luck. I saw his old pickup before I saw him sitting under a sweet gum tree.

  "Sarah Booth," he said, rising as I walked toward him.

  My first impulse was to slap him. Hard. Right in the face. Restraint cost me a lot, but I gritted my jaw and held my temper.

  "Your face looks like the sky—stormy weather."

  I couldn't read him. He was acting all down-homey, like I was a casual stranger. "What is going on with you? You show up at my house and act like I'm a stranger."

  The mask dropped, and for a split second, I saw his pain. Then he was composed again. "I'm trying hard not to walk over there and take you in my arms."

  My own heart rate jumped. I'd hoped that my sexual feelings for Coleman had been tamped down. But they hadn't. I wanted him instantly, and I read the want on his face, too.

  "Why haven't you called?"

  "Connie tried to kill herself last week. She's in a hospital, tied in a bed. They have to restrain her. They're running all kinds of tests."

  "I'm sorry." I forced myself to say the words. I was sorry. For Coleman. For Connie. For the situation. And for myself. We were all losers.

  "I think about you every minute of every day. And then I look at Connie, and I think she's paying the price for the fact that I don't love her anymore."

  "Perhaps if she'd acted in a more lovable fashion."

  He shook his head. "I blame myself."

  "And me? Do you blame me, too?"

  Before I could blink, he had me in his arms. "I don't blame you for anything, Sarah Booth." He kissed my forehead and pulled me against him.

  He smelled of cold and sunshine and woods. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against his chest. A wave of sadness engulfed me, and I clung to him. For a moment, I thought my heart would break.

  "It's okay," he whispered. "I see you. I hold you in my arms, and I know that it's going to be okay."

  At last I had control of myself. I pushed lightly, and he released me. The wind off the little lake had grown colder as the clouds blotted out the weak sun. I looked into his blue eyes.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to sell the house. The medical bills are piling up. Insurance covers a lot of it, but not all."

  "And your job?"

  "I'm coming back to work."

  I couldn't help the smile. "Thank goodness."

  "I don't have a choice. I need the money, and I can't take it if I don't earn it."

  "And Connie?"

  "The doctor says he wants to keep her isolated for two weeks. Then we'll reevaluate. There's just no telling what she told him."

  That was true. Connie was a manipulative, conniving bitch. "And you're meeting with the supervisors to . . ."

  "Tell them I'm back on the job."

  "Where will you live?"

  "I haven't figured all of that out."

  It was on the tip of my tongue to offer Dahlia House. It was plenty big. We could both live there and never bump into each other. But I knew that wouldn't be the case. We were both walking a thin line, and if we were physically together, we wouldn't be able to resist each other.

  "My feelings are hurt, Sarah Booth." His smile was tired. "I've been gone less than a month, and you already have a new beau. Humphrey Tatum. A man who gives interesting gifts."

  "This from the man who has a wife. A pregnant wife." My smile took the sting out of the words.

  He looked out at the lake. "If Connie were well, I'd divorce her so quickly, her head would spin around."

  "I know." That was Coleman's curse. And mine, too. To abandon a sick and mentally ill wife was unacceptable. It was easier to live with unrequited love than guilt.

  "The doctor said he'd have the tests back in by Monday. Once a positive diagnosis is made, I'll have a better idea where I stand. Connie's not right mentally. She's ..." He stopped.

  "I'm glad you're back at work."

  "Me, too. Maybe we can have lunch and talk about the Tatum case."

  "Sure—" But my answer was interrupted by the querulous ring of my cell phone.

  "Sarah Booth Delaney, where are you?" Tinkie had recovered and was back in form.

  "I'm on my way—"

  "They're going to read the will in about sixty seconds."

  She was aggravated, but I held the trump card. "Maybe you could drink something and then vomit everywhere, you kno
w, give me a chance to get there." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Coleman shake his head, but he was smiling.

  "Where are you?"

  "On the way."

  "It doesn't sound like you're driving. There's no wind rushing and all of that. What's going on?"

  "I'll tell you when I get there." I shut off the phone and pulled my car keys from my pocket. "Duty calls. The reading of the will."

  "I'll see you after the supervisors' meeting."

  "I'll count on that." I drove out of the woods before I did something both of us would regret.

  By the time I got to Jocko Hallett's office, the sky was gunmetal gray, and a brisk wind was blowing the remaining leaves free of the trees and sending them pell-mell through the air. I ran into the building, propelled by the wind.

  Tinkie was waiting for me in an outer office. "They won't let us in," she said testily. "And Oscar has gone out of town on a business trip, and I don't know where."

  "He's probably aggrieved that you didn't go home last night."

  "I would have, if I'd been in any condition to drive."

  I patted her knee. "Who's inside for the will reading?"

  "Umbria and her husband. And Humphrey, as well as the lawyer."

  "A nice cozy gathering."

  "I hope they have a professional cleaning company lined up. I have a feeling blood is going to flow."

  There was nothing for it but to have a seat and look through the stack of investment and travel magazines. Jocko's clientele was better heeled than I was. I couldn't afford investments or travel. I scanned the photographs of golden Tuscany and tried to eavesdrop on the loud voices coming from the conference room behind me.

  The door opened, and Umbria stormed out, followed by Rutherford. They glared at Tinkie and me and fled the office.

  Humphrey came out, his normally debonair facade mildly ruffled. He turned to speak to Jocko.

  "The will is ironclad?" he asked.

  "T's crossed and i's dotted," Jocko answered. He adjusted his four-in-hand tie, which I thought was a little much for Zinnia.

  Jocko spoke to Humphrey, but he addressed all of us in his bass-baritone. "I didn't draw this will up, but Linda Feinstein knew what she was doing. Umbria can bitch and moan all she wants. Allison inherits. Everything."

  To my surprise, Humphrey didn't seem elated. His face showed only concern. "The will was sealed?" he asked.

  "Yes. I opened it myself."

  Tinkie and I stood. Humphrey shook his head as he gazed at us. "This won't look good for Allison."

  "Maybe not," Tinkie said. "But all is not lost. Sarah Booth and I have some leads."

  I nodded agreement while keeping an eye on the lawyer, who was looking at Tinkie like she was the main course of an expensive menu.

  "Mrs. Richmond," Jocko said. "May I have a word with you?"

  "Me?" Tinkie was surprised.

  "Your husband called this morning. He's hired me to represent him in divorce proceedings."

  Tinkie paled. "This is a joke, right?"

  Jocko stood taller. "Absolutely not. Oscar is hoping for—"

  He didn't get to finish. Tinkie was out the door like a shot.

  17

  Zinnia's Main Street was jam-packed with cars and shoppers as the pre-Thanksgiving sales began to draw folks in for holiday shopping. I maneuvered through the congested streets, looking for Tinkie's Caddy. I'd already checked Hilltop, and the maid told me Tinkie had come home, checked through the house, and roared away again, sending a spray of gravel flying that cracked one of the front windows.

  I also gleaned the fact that Oscar had stayed up all night drinking and had left the house in a thunderous rage and without breakfast. Too late. I should have telephoned Oscar and told him Tinkie was safe at my house. We'd really pissed him off, and I wasn't certain what the consequences might be.

  Worried for my friend, I drove out to The Gardens to give Virgie her photographs. I went straight to her room, and when the door creaked open at my knock, I walked in.

  There is a distinctive scent that goes with being a proper older lady—floral sachet mixed with a light talc. It is a heady and, sometimes, frightening smell for younger women who fear they may never reach the pinnacle of propriety. I thought of my mother, who always smelled of sandalwood incense and something else dark and mysterious. And Aunt Loulane, who was proper but more of a vanilla extract kind of woman. Virgie was lavender.

  "Miss Carrington?" I stepped into the room and glanced around. A slip dangled over a chair, and two sensible shoes lay as if she'd walked out of them. Virgie must have left the room in a big hurry. If she knew I was looking at this disarray, she would be embarrassed. A proper lady never left undergarments lying around.

  To my amusement, there was also a pair of oversized muck boots. I couldn't imagine Virgie, in her cashmere twin set and silk skirt, wearing muck boots, but she was, like Gertrude Stromm, an avid gardener.

  That was probably where she was. I backed out of the room and pulled the door shut and went to find her among the vivid mums. She was kneeling in khaki slacks and a harvest-hued sweater, a flush of exertion on her cheeks as she dug a well-established buck vine from the middle of a flower bed.

  She wiped her forehead with her arm. "Gertrude told me I could have some amaryllis, but this damn vine is making it difficult. Is there something I can help you with?"

  "I'm not in a rush. Please, finish what you're doing. Allison sent you some pictures." She attacked the vine again, and in a moment she pulled out a huge tuberous root. She removed stout leather gloves and took the pictures, her face falling into sadness as she looked through them.

  "They seemed so happy."

  I motioned to a bench beneath the oak, and we took a seat. "Miss. Carrington, I don't want to upset you, but Tinkie and I have unearthed several deaths that may not have been accidental."

  "What?" She put the photos beside her leg. "Who?"

  "Quentin, of course, was murdered. We also believe Genevieve Reynold's mother was murdered."

  "Who would do such a thing to Betty? I didn't know her well at all, but she seemed perfectly delightful. She loved her daughter. Besides, this can't be true. She died in an accidental fall."

  "Maybe not." I told her about the shelf in the library.

  "Who could mastermind such a terrible thing? And why target Mrs. Reynolds?"

  "I believe the murderer intended to kill Genevieve." I told her briefly about my suspicions regarding Mrs. Jenkins and Belinda Loper. "We don't have substantial proof, yet, but when we find it, we're going to be able to clear Allison totally."

  "That is such a relief." She picked up the pictures and pointed to one. "Allison wanted roses and calla lilies. Quentin wanted poinsettias. I was able to forge a compromise." A tear traced down her cheek. 'You can't begin to imagine how hard this is. I loved those girls like they were my own. Better than their own parents loved them. I saw such a future for Quentin."

  Virgie suffered the loss of Quentin as if she were blood, and I felt for Virgie. She wasn't a woman who enjoyed pats and hugs, so I stood up and offered my hand. "We'll find the person who killed Quentin. You have my word on it."

  "Where is your partner?" She dried the tears from her face with the back of her hand.

  "Tinkie is running down a lead." I glanced around. I'd hoped Tinkie might be at The Gardens, but she was nowhere in sight. I needed to find her. She wasn't the kind of person to do something rash, but she was carrying a heavy load—guilt, remorse, anger, fear, and now what had to feel like betrayal.

  "What kind of lead?" Virgie asked.

  "Oh, the biggest one." I stepped away. "I'll be in touch."

  "Let me know as soon as you find something."

  "I'll do that," I promised as I turned and hurried to my car.

  I drove through town several times again, hoping to see Tinkie's vehicle at Millie's; or the Cut and Curl; or at her salon; or the coffee shop; or even the library. Tinkie had vanished.

  I drove past Jocko Hal
lett's office on the off chance she'd gone there to kill him. The parking lot was empty. In a last ditch effort, I drove to the bank. I needed to talk to Harold, anyway.

  My heart dropped when I scanned the bank parking lot and didn't see Tinkie's car. I'd hoped she'd gone to Oscar and begged forgiveness. Now it was up to me.

  I parked and went inside, asking for Harold. I was ushered into his private office. While his secretary brought in a tray of coffee and Scottish shortbread, I watched him pace the room, his dark brow furrowed.

  "Oscar has lost his mind," he said as soon as the door closed behind his secretary. "He's divorcing Tinkie."

  "I know. I was with her when Jocko dropped the bomb that Oscar had hired him."

  "This is insane!"

  "I know."

  He paced some more. "They love each other."

  "I know."

  "So Tinkie pitched a drunk. Who hasn't? I've seen Oscar so tanked that Tinkie had to support him."

  "I know." I'd become very good at saying that phrase with sincerity, and for the moment, Harold didn't want or need another response.

  "What in the hell is wrong with Oscar?"

  "I don't know."

  Harold sat down across from me and poured the coffee. "What are we going to do?"

  "I don't know that, either." Tinkie's lump was a heavy secret as I stared into Harold's pale eyes. "I'm worried about her."

  "I'm worried about them both." He offered the shortbread, and I shook my head.

  "I'm going to talk to Oscar."

  "Good." He stood up. "You may be able to talk some sense into him."

  It was my experience that sense could never be talked into anyone. Still, there was nothing else for it. I rose, too. Harold opened the door and stopped. "Good luck," he said.

  As I walked across the marble lobby of the bank, I felt all eyes on me. Business stopped as everyone watched me tap lightly on the door to Oscar's private office.

  "Come in." It was a command, not an invitation.

  I opened the door and stepped in, closing it firmly behind me. The look he gave me almost boiled my blood.

  "What do you want?" He rose slowly, and I could smell the alcohol from where I stood. His suit was rumpled, his hair uncombed.

  "Oh, Oscar," I said, walking to his desk.

  "Get out of here. This is your fault."