Bonefire of the Vanities (21 page)

Tinkie wasn’t visible in the parking lot, so I ducked under the crime scene tape and unlocked the door.

The draperies were pulled tight, leaving the room with the dimmest of light. I hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight, but I did have gloves. Not the thin latex used at crime scenes but the thick rubber ones used for cleaning. They’d work fine, though.

The room was Spartan. The double bed, a table beside it, a dresser, and a desk. Old grocery receipts and tissues, along with socks, shoes, blouses, and slacks—the Heart’s Desire uniform—were scattered around the floor. Had Yumi had time to do all of this? Or had Amanda abandoned everything that tied her to Heart’s Desire and scattered her belongings about the room, telling anyone who saw it she was leaving angry?

Or scared.

I studied the chaos to see if I could tell which emotion.

A drawer was pulled out and dumped on the floor. A tube of toothpaste, almost empty, old hair curlers, crumbling eye makeup—nothing Amanda valued enough to pack. But this was likely the thing I’d heard hit the floor when Yumi was searching the room.

So what was she seeking? An item that could be tucked in a shallow drawer. So it was smaller than a bread box. I stopped. To my knowledge, I’d never seen a bread box. Not even a photo of one. My aunt Loulane had often repeated that saying, and I’d never stopped to think what it really meant.

A click distracted me.

I whirled around. A white-haired old lady sporting the strangest hat sat on the foot of the bed, knitting needles chattering like two possessed imps.

“Oh, dear,” the woman said, “this doesn’t look good. It reminds me of the time the milkman’s granddaughter disappeared from the McWhorters’ country house. Her room was a mess and everyone thought she’d had a disagreement with young Charlotte McWhorter. But that wasn’t the case. No, it was much more dire.”

The voice was thin and reedy, and the woman never lifted her eyes from her knitting. She was familiar, though. I’d seen her before. Who was Jitty pretending to be this time? I refused to give her the satisfaction of asking. Then it hit me.

“Miss Jane Marple!” I had it. The Agatha Christie spinster who solved mysteries in the English village of St. Mary Mead. Miss Marple was a staple of the mystery crowd, and her prowess as a sleuth spanned decades.

“Your powers of deduction are impressive,” she said, putting her knitting needles away. She took in the disarray. “Poor, poor child. Take a gander at this mess. Makes one wonder why she was in such a hurry. Do you think they were on to her?”

“They?” I jumped on it. Jitty never told me how far her powers reached, and I’d frequently wondered if she knew the answers to my cases but wouldn’t—or couldn’t—tell me. The rules of the Great Beyond were often enigmatic and incomprehensible to me, yet I knew there were guidelines governing Jitty’s interaction with the living. Hell, there was policy for everything; I’d come to accept the fact.

“Certainly there’s more than one culprit at Heart’s Desire and more than one crime,” Jitty said in her softest elderly British gentlewoman tone. She picked up her needles and yarn and clicked away. She appeared to be knitting a sweater for a Cyclops. She might be able to imitate certain characters, but that didn’t mean she could knit. “The dark corners of the human heart are capable of producing all kinds of mayhem.”

Okay, so Jitty was
not
being helpful. No big surprise. “Why
are
you here? Surely you can latch on to something more interesting to do in the Great Beyond.”

“I came to check up on you.” She rose in a fluid movement that belied her supposed age. “Heart’s Desire is similar to a village, Sarah Booth. What’s happening here is a bit like a locked-door mystery, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, the killer has to be on the grounds.
If
Amanda was killed. Was she?” Could Jitty communicate with Amanda’s spirit? I had another important spirit question. “I think I saw Mariam’s ghost last night. For real, Jitty. She told me to protect her mother. Was it really Mariam?”

She ignored my questions and asked a couple of her own. “Was Amanda seeing anyone? Maybe one of the guards?” I should have known she’d give me no feedback on the Great Beyond. I’d tried before.

The thought had occurred to me. “Maybe she was dating someone here.” I didn’t know for certain what the young chef had been up to.

“Crime of passion. Tsk. Tsk.”

I cut a sideways glance at Jitty. She was deep in the character of Miss Marple to tsk at the thought of passion. She was always after me to do the wild thang with Graf—or any suitable male—and get myself with child.

“What if it wasn’t passion? What if Amanda discovered a secret?”

“Then if she has a fellow, he might know about it. Use your noggin, Sarah Booth.”

I couldn’t believe it. Jitty had provided a lead. “I like this incarnation of a famous detective,” I told her. “It works for me.”

The shift in her face was subtle. The wrinkles pulled tight and the lips filled, rounding into Jitty’s full face with a hint of mischief. “You came to that conclusion on your own, missy. You needed a kick to jump-start those ole brain cells clackin’.” She tossed the yarn onto the bed. “Lucky for both of us, I won’t ever be no old lady knittin’ on an ugly-ass sweater no one will ever want to wear.”

“Yeah. Lucky for me,” I agreed wholeheartedly. She was already starting to fade, and a good thing. I needed to conclude my search and escape Dodge before Coleman—or even worse, Palk—caught me. Time, when I was dealing with Jitty, seemed to stretch and compress. I checked my watch. Less than two minutes had passed. Still, as my aunt Loulane would say, only a fool tarried in a cuckold’s bed. I stopped. Had Aunt Loulane really said such a thing to a twelve-year-old? More likely I’d overheard a conversation I shouldn’t have listened to. Nonetheless, it was enough to jolt my butt into high gear.

I searched the room and discovered a crumpled movie ticket stub in the bathroom trash can, a romance novel with a pressed flower between the pages, and a handwritten note saying, “You deserve the best in romance. I hope Kyle is the man for you. Happy Birthday, Pammy.” The copyright on the book was very recent. Which led me to believe that Kyle was someone she’d met at Heart’s Desire.

An excellent morning’s take, if I did say so myself.

I cleared out of the room, making sure Palk’s keys were in my hand before I slammed the door.

“Pssst!”

I edged around the building to find Tinkie hiding behind a giant trash can. Lucky she was wearing her maid outfit or she would have ruined her expensive clothes.

“Amanda’s car is parked in a building back there.” She waved to a warehouse-type structure. “It’s locked, dammit.”

“Did you see the duffel bag she’d packed?”

“No. It’s probably in the trunk.”

I told her about the lead I’d discovered. “Now we need to find Kyle.”

“Leave it to me,” she said. “This will require a wardrobe change.”

The smile spread wide on my face. Tinkie, when she set her mind to it, could be devastating to the male species. While there were rules governing the ethical conduct of a born-and-bred Daddy’s Girl, when it came to the art of male manipulation, Tinkie didn’t always follow “accepted procedure.” With Tinkie going rogue, even the strongest man was at risk.

“I need a distraction to return Palk’s keys,” I told her as we scurried back to the main house.

“Your wish is my command.” Tinkie went inside first. The kitchen and dining area were quiet. The furor Marjorie created by accusing Palk of lurking around her door had died down. Order had been restored. The feel of the house was like the quiet after a terrible storm. Everyone was hiding.

“Mr. Palk!” Tinkie yelled his name so suddenly, I jumped.

She waved me toward the employee dining area. “Get rid of those keys,” she commanded.

She went straight to the dining room and on through to the parlor. “Mr. Palk, someone has been tampering with the things in my room. I need to know who and why.”

Palk appeared, tie and jacket in place. “Lower your voice, madam,” he said severely.

“Who went through my belongings?” Tinkie buttonholed him in a corner of the hall and I hustled into the employee dining area and tossed the keys in a corner behind the puddled draperies. He would find them eventually and wonder how they’d fallen from his coat pocket.

“Well, I never heard of a place where an employee’s suitcase would be violated. Someone at Heart’s Desire is a crook.” Tinkie turned abruptly on her heel and headed up the stairs to Marjorie’s room.

I followed, taking the back staircase meant for the hired help. The less Palk saw of me, the better. The less I saw of him and Yumi, the better for my sex life.

13

While Tinkie reassessed her wardrobe for the task of finding Kyle, I ran the vacuum and cleaned the bathroom. It wasn’t a difficult job, but it was one Tinkie had likely never done in her life. She was accustomed to maids and servants. It never crossed her mind that dirt had to be assisted out of a house. Still, when she spun in front of the mirror, I had to admit the end result of all her primping was definitely worth it.

Marjorie had loaned her a long, red silk top with a handkerchief hem. Tinkie turned it into a minidress. With some flash and dazzle high heels—and a diamond necklace that had to weigh a pound—she was primed to take on the guards. All I had to do was walk with her and keep my lips zipped. And keep an eye out for Palk, Yumi, or other trouble.

We made it to the front gate without incident, and Tinkie stopped to chat up the four guards. Holding their semiautomatic assault weapons, they were gruff and resistant—at first. Tinkie dropped an earring and bent over to get it. To great advantage. Then she moved in for the kill with big baby-doll eyes and her lip-popping thing that shattered all resistance in the male species. I could do the same maneuver and it would be laughable. With Tinkie, it unleashed the male’s most vivid lust.

“I heard the man to know is named Kyle,” Tinkie said, stroking the barrel of one guard’s gun. He literally trembled.

“Kyle? He’s nothin’ special,” the guard said. He had to clear his throat. “I’m free tonight.”

“A fine catch like you, runnin’ wild tonight?” Tinkie pressed her hand against his chest. “I might have to reconsider my game plan. But I have to at least check this Kyle out. I heard from some of the kitchen help he has special … talents.”

Oh, Lord, she was piling on the crap.

“He don’t do nothin’ any one of us can’t,” the man said. “In my case, with more … attention to detail.” He’d regained his bravado. The backs of his fingers grazed Tinkie’s cheek and she trilled up at him in a sort of combination giggle and sigh.

I was fascinated, and doing my best to make like a statue. I had no talent for this kind of flirting. Tinkie could turn a man inside out with minimal effort. It was her posture, her voice, her direct gaze, the way she trilled and simpered. She was a mirror, giving back to the man the image of himself he most desperately wanted to view. And almost every man I knew was mesmerized by that reflection.

This manipulation was taught in the cradle by mothers who followed the Daddy’s Girl tradition. For a long while, I’d disdained this behavior, but as I’d grown to know Tinkie and watched her, I’d changed my position. This was a skill, like Cece’s great ability to interview a subject and draw out secrets. It was not unlike the trained ability of an investigator—a person who listened and watched and put together the puzzle pieces.

Tinkie wasn’t dishonest. She reflected what a man wanted to be. The dishonesty came in his own failed ability to recognize himself.

“Now, where might I find this Kyle, so if he doesn’t work out, I can come right back here and continue this fascinating encounter.”

The guard sighed. “He’s at the barracks.” He pointed down a narrow trail that led through the woods. Outside the eight-foot wall were cotton fields—flat, wide-open rows of money crop stretching to the horizon. The land within the compound remained densely wooded. “It’s about a mile. You’ll break your neck in those heels. I could arrange a ride in one of the Jeeps.”

Tinkie only laughed up at him. “I’ve run a marathon in these heels, honey. I was born in a pair of stilettos. My mama wore hers in the delivery room. She meant to style even while in labor.”

The men laughed with approval, and Tinkie signaled me to follow her as she sauntered down the trail, making sure the hitch in her get-along held the attention of all.

Out of earshot, she moaned and removed the shoes. “I’m exhausted.”

“How do you do that?” I’d seen it more than once, but I was always amazed. “You could have stripped them down and shaved a barber pole around their bodies. Not a single one would have protested.”

The sly smile faded and she was all business. “It takes hard work. You have no idea how my sorority sisters and I used to practice back at Ole Miss.” She checked over her shoulder to be sure we weren’t followed. “You were doing the same thing, only on a stage and pretending to be Kate the shrew or the older sister in
Crimes of the Heart
.”

“You saw my plays.” I was dumbstruck. In college, I’d viewed Tinkie about as useful as navel lint. Yet she’d come to watch me onstage in college productions. And I’d never known. “Why?”

“Folks said you were a great actress. And you were from my hometown. I always went to see you. Even though you were a real weirdo and a social outcast, you were a talented actress.”

Shamed by this revelation, I walked on beside Tinkie. I’d written her off as silly and a waste of time, yet she’d viewed me as talented. An actress. I had seriously, and sadly, far too many times, underestimated the woman who traveled beside me.

“Do you ever regret being trained as a DG?” I asked her.

“My heavens, no.” A smile moved across her face. “This is a powerful tool, Sarah Booth. Your aunt Loulane tried hard to help you learn some DG skills. She arrived on the job too late. Your mother had already turned you into an independent woman.” She laughed. “But I clearly remember Aunt Loulane telling you things like ‘You can catch more flies with sugar than vinegar.’”