Bonefire of the Vanities (27 page)

“Yeah, I know his family. He showed up voluntarily this morning and made a statement. He didn’t have a lot of nice things to say about the work situation at Heart’s Desire. Bottom line, though, he doesn’t have a clue what happened to Amanda, which is probably a good thing. If he finds out who’s responsible, he says he’ll hurt them.”

“And I wouldn’t blame him.” Coleman had to uphold the law, but I wasn’t a sworn law officer, and I understood the desire—and temptation—for physical retribution. Sometimes revenge was the sweetest nectar. “Do you think it’s a coincidence the murders started as soon as Chasley was on the premises?”

“I don’t know.” Coleman walked over to Lola’s lifeless body as the techs snapped photographs. “I’ll know more when I run a full background check on her.”

“Cece confirmed she’s a country music songwriter. Big time.” Another tidbit came to mind. “She’s wearing the spa towel and mask for Amaryllis Dill. The killer might have thought it was Amaryllis.” I told him about her fear that someone meant to harm her. “And Cece couldn’t find a thing on Amaryllis Dill, except she’s a dance teacher in D.C.”

“Heart’s Desire seems to be a pit of deception and danger.” Coleman rolled his shoulders to relax the tension. “I think you and Tinkie and Mrs. Littlefield should leave.”

“Graf and Oscar just arrived. And thank you.” I wanted to say a lot more, but now wasn’t the time.

“If only Marjorie would consent to pack up, I’d be happy to call it quits.”

“You’re too hardheaded to abandon her.”

It was a statement, not a question. “I’m afraid if we leave her alone, she’ll do something tragic. One foot is always mired in a big pit of depression.”

“Like your aunt Loulane used to say, ‘Money can’t buy happiness.’”

“Does everyone quote my aunt?” I asked.

“Every chance we get. Now, let’s see what the techs can tell us.”

16

It was a long day, and I chafed at the thought of Graf waiting for me in the Lotus Suite. I visualized him, reclined on the bed, pining. It helped me block out the horror of what was happening around me.

It wasn’t hard to eavesdrop on Coleman, DeWayne, and the techs. Their findings were preliminary, but they felt Lola had not struggled. Someone had slipped behind her, grasped her chin, and sliced across her throat with a sure stroke. The inference was the killer had been hiding in the spa area and had acted without hesitation. Whoever had claimed Lola’s life had entered the spa, murdered her, and departed in under five minutes, based on Misty’s insistence that she’d been solo in the spa.

The consensus of opinion pointed to blood loss, a result of the wound, as the cause of death. Based on the angle of the cut, Coleman believed the killer was right-handed, not a lot of help since the majority of people were. And all unverified until the forensic evidence had been gathered and examined.

Lola’s body was removed and taken to Sunflower County Hospital, where Doc would perform an autopsy. Forensics were always a lawman’s best ally, but I wasn’t certain what else, if anything, Lola’s body could tell us. She’d gone to the spa to relax, and now she was dead.

While DeWayne questioned the staff and guests, Coleman allowed me to tag along for the interview with Misty.

She’d pulled herself together, tendered her resignation, and was eager to pack her things as soon as Coleman gave permission. She would stay with a cousin in Zinnia, she said. Her story remained consistent. She didn’t see or hear anyone enter the spa; she didn’t know of anyone who might want to harm Lola or anyone else on the premises of Heart’s Desire.

DeWayne’s interviews indicated solid alibis for the guests, who were all gathered in the parlor for the financial summit seminar led by Brandy. Sherry had taken migraine medication and was comatose for all practical purposes. The waiters, maids, and chefs had been busy with daily chores. No one was unaccounted for, yet any number of people could have slipped away long enough to slice Lola’s throat.

The guards reported no entry through the front gate. It was as if a ghost had materialized to murder at Heart’s Desire.

“Someone is lying,” Coleman said to me as we waited for Gretchen Waller to pull herself together for an interview.

“Probably more than one person.” For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out who at Heart’s Desire might want to kill the songwriter. She was annoying when she was in her cups, but that wasn’t a reason to cut her throat. Or at least not a good one.

I left Coleman to speak with Gretchen alone and went with DeWayne to examine the songwriters’ suite. The layout was much the same as Marjorie’s room, except there were two queen-sized beds instead of one. The songwriters wouldn’t win any awards for orderliness—their clothes were thrown on every available flat surface. Two guitars were propped against furniture. Clutter and mess, but nothing to indicate an argument or trouble of any kind.

The laundry hamper in the bathroom overflowed with towels, wraps, and robes.

I clearly saw why Lola had swiped a few of Amaryllis’s linens. There wasn’t a dry towel in the bathroom. Everything was damp and wadded into the hamper.

Tinkie had the computer expertise in Delaney Detective Agency, but I knew enough to open the files on the laptop. Song lyrics, a calendar with appointments—nothing obvious that might lead to murder. DeWayne took the computer for a more comprehensive examination.

Coleman had finished with Gretchen when I returned. “What did you find out from her?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing that makes any sense. She doesn’t know who would hurt Lola. Or Amaryllis. Or Amanda.”

Before we could get into it any deeper, Amaryllis appeared for her interview. I’d filled Coleman in on what she’d said to me, but she refused to admit any of it to him. Not even in front of me.

“I have no idea where you came up with that wild story,” she said, and I had to admire her chutzpah even as I noted her trembling. She was terrified.

“You told me you feared for your life. You think your lover may have offed his wife and intends to kill you.”

“I didn’t tell you a damn thing. I don’t socialize with maids.” She wouldn’t budge. She said only that Lola must have taken her spa supplies when they were left outside her door. “Lola and Gretchen hogged the spa all the time. You’d think they’d never stayed in a luxury accommodation before. They couldn’t get enough of the facials or saunas or massages. They must have booked appointments at least four times a day. Lola mentioned earlier that they’d used up the spa supplies in their room and asked to borrow some of mine. I didn’t care. I’m not interested in the spa.”

“Why are you here?” Coleman asked. “Are you investing with the Westins?”

She started to answer angrily but thought better of it. “My reason for being here has nothing to do with money.” She pressed her lips together. “It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving today. I’m returning to D.C. I booked a flight out of Memphis for tonight.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Dill, you can’t leave Sunflower County until I’ve completed the investigation.” Coleman’s tone made it clear he meant business.

“Surely you don’t think I hurt the songwriter? I didn’t know her. I have no reason to harm her.”

“Someone did, and I believe it was someone living in the main house.”

“You can’t make me stay here.” She looked as if she might throw up.

“I’m sorry. I’ll wrap this up as fast as possible,” Coleman said.

She appealed to me, but there was nothing I could do. “Tell the sheriff the truth. That’s the quickest ticket out of here,” I counseled her.

Anger flared for a moment. “I’ve told him everything I can.” She stormed away from the interview. I started to stop her, but Coleman caught my arm.

“Let her go. We can get her any time we want her.”

DeWayne and the techs began loading their equipment into the patrol cars, leaving me alone with Coleman. “Gretchen believes a hit was taken out on Amaryllis Dill and the wrong woman was killed.”

“It’s possible. Amaryllis was sleeping with a married man, and she’s hinted that he’s a powerful man. His wife died in a car wreck. Amaryllis fears Linda was murdered, and she’s afraid she’ll be next.”

“I’ll run some checks. Be careful, Sarah Booth.” His finger brushed a stray curl from the side of my face. “I’d never forgive myself if I talked Graf out of taking you to Hollywood and you got yourself hurt.”

“I’ll keep clear of danger.” His concern touched me. Coleman had no right to order me, but he did have plenty of right to caution me. We shared too much.

“I’ll believe that when the sun freezes.” He tugged my hair gently the way he’d done in school.

“I promise to be cautious.” I wanted to hug him, but the line we walked was too fine. “Let me know what you find out.”

“Roger that,” he said, and followed DeWayne.

*   *   *

Finally cut loose, I made a beeline for the Lotus Suite and one handsome actor. Graf was surely pacing the room, anxious for us to celebrate our reunion. I imagined him languishing on a chaise, one leg on the floor. One naked leg, giving me a tantalizing preview of what awaited—a throw covering part of his torso, but enough of his manly chest peeking out. I knew his body so well.

“Feets, don’t fail me now,” I whispered as I sped on my rubber-soled shoes toward the Lotus Suite. In less than a minute I’d be in Graf’s arms. In his bed. In the throes of pleasure. It had been way too long. I cleared the spa hallway and hooked right toward the foyer and stairs.

I didn’t make it that far. When I passed the dining room, I heard loud laughter and Graf’s voice. He wasn’t in his room yearning for me; he was holding court in the dining room. I stopped to listen as he regaled the Addlesons, Mrs. Littlefield, and Brandy Westin with tales of diamond mining in Africa. I could not believe my ears. According to the anecdotes Graf was telling, he’d traveled extensively around the world, been everything from a diamond mine owner to a sunken treasure finder. He had a line of bullshit ten miles long, and everyone in the dining room was eating it up.

“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” Palk came up behind me. I was too worn down to spar with him.

“Back off, Palk. I’ve had a rough day.”

“You’re not paid to have good days. And you’re not paid to lurk outside rooms and snoop.”

My fists clenched, but I gathered my temper. “Care to see how bad I can make your day?”

“Threats don’t work with me.”

“Maybe a good spanking … I have this very interesting hockey mask I could wear.” I was rewarded with a profound blush that swept across his face.

“You eavesdropping little—”

“Careful. I have your number, Palk. Either back off or I’ll make sure the entire staff knows.”

He didn’t have time to respond. The doorbell chimed. He had indeed been saved by the bell.

Curious, I followed Palk to the front.

“Who might you be?” Palk asked. “And what is that creature on a leash? In all my days I’ve never seen a more demented animal.”

“I’m Harold Erkwell, and I have urgent papers for Mr. Desmond Graf to sign immediately. The guards delayed me for over an hour. Now I need to see Desmond and obtain his signature before he loses money.”

“Wait here and I’ll be happy to take them to him.” Palk had reached his limit—not another single person or pet would breach the walls of Heart’s Desire.

Harold jammed a foot in the door. “I must speak with Mr. Graf. Immediately. And I must take care of this matter personally.”

“No dogs allowed in the house.”

“I beg to differ. This is not just a dog, this is Mr. Graf’s financial prognosticator. The dog has psychic abilities. If Mr. Graf loses money because you’ve delayed me with your foolishness, I’ll make certain the Westins are sued for the loss. Out of my way, man, or suffer the consequences.”

Right on cue, Roscoe loosed an evil growl followed by a high-pitched whine that made my teeth grind.

Harold pressed his advantage, entering with Roscoe at his side, actually
heeling
on a leash. Palk pointed toward the dining room, and the duo swept past him.

I followed right behind, amazed at Harold’s role.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Graf, but if you’re to sell that stock before…” Harold cleared his throat. “I do apologize. I need only his signature and then I’ll be gone.”

Graf accepted the sheaf of papers and signed with a flourish. He motioned Palk over. “Prepare refreshments for Mr. Erkwell, my banker. He’s made a long drive and I’m sure he’d like something cool to drink. And a bone from the kitchen for the noble Roscoe. The last million-dollar investment I made, Roscoe picked it.”

“The dog?” Roger Addleson was instantly intrigued. “The dog picked a stock?”

“He’s divinely inspired,” Graf went on. “The dog is a genius.”

“How does he pick a stock?” Roger asked.

“We write the names of potential buys on pieces of paper and scatter them on the floor. Roscoe then sniffs them all and pees on the one that’s going up. He is one hundred percent accurate. I’ve made millions relying on his instincts.”

Harold leaned close to Roger and stage-whispered, “Graf believes Roscoe is Warren Buffet’s dopplegänger. Can’t you detect a tad of Warren in his face?”

“We need paper,” Roger said. “I want to see how this works.”

“No dog will be allowed to pee in this dining room.” Palk was appalled at such an idea. “I have never heard of such antics.”

“I want to know if this is real,” Roger demanded. “Mrs. Westin, could we get paper.”

Brandy considered Harold and Roscoe. “I think we’ll hold off on this.”

“Great idea,” Harold agreed. “I could do with a bite to eat, if it’s no trouble. Maybe later we could relocate on the lawn. Roscoe loves to show off his abilities, and I wouldn’t mind one free session. Right-o, Desmond?”

“If you insist.” Graf wasn’t pleased.

Palk remained frozen, but Brandy Westin hopped into action. “Mr. Palk, have Yumi prepare refreshments for our new guest.”

Palk did the sharpest pivot I’d ever seen.

“What about the dog?” Shimmer Adleson asked. “He isn’t staying in the dining room, is he? I’m allergic.”

“Roscoe is a snaz-a-pooty,” Harold said with aplomb. “He has hair, not fur. You simply can’t be allergic to him.”