Bonefire of the Vanities (3 page)

“And ice cream from the Sweetheart drive-through.”

Harold wasn’t even ashamed. “Yes, he loves those soft cones of vanilla. We go every evening.”

“Harold, if you ever have children, you’ll be a pushover.”

“Right now, Roscoe is all I need. But I have to say, Sarah Booth, he’s brought great adventure into my life. I never thought I’d enjoy a dog, but he is so … awful! He thinks things through, and then he does the worst he can come up with.”

“And that’s good?” Tammy was laughing with me, but she was slightly horrified.

“It is. He’s like my alter ego. He does all the stuff I want to but can’t. Why, the other day, he peed on Mrs. Hedgepeth’s foot. It was just the best. That old bat has made life hell for everyone in town for the past forty years. Roscoe went up to her and cut loose. It was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Mrs. Hedgepeth was the neighborhood fun police, and once she’d tried to get Sweetie Pie sent to the pound for no reason. She wasn’t a friend to dog or child, and I’d seen Roscoe pull that same stunt on another old witch. The dog did seem to have the ability to plan out his outrageous actions. “I’m surprised she didn’t file some kind of assault charge against you and Roscoe.”

Harold couldn’t stop laughing. “She didn’t know I owned him or she probably would have. Now I have to make certain he doesn’t run around the neighborhood loose. I’m having one of those underground fences installed tomorrow.”

I thought to say good luck, but I didn’t. Somehow, I didn’t think Roscoe would be confined by a mere shock, but who was I to dampen Harold’s newfound love of doggyhood?

“Well, ladies, I must be off to work. Take good care of my boy.”

“I’m gone, too,” Tammy said.

“And I’ll get after this post office business in New Orleans, Tammy.”

I stood on the porch and watched as my friends drove away. I had to call Tinkie, though I didn’t want to make more trouble for her with Oscar. Still, I was curious about this mysterious New Orleans post office box and the disappearing Mrs. Littlefield. It was time to move on with my life, whether Graf spoke to me or not, and a trip to Sin City was just the ticket to get me out of the dumps.

2

“Drive faster, dammit!” Tinkie gripped the leather seat of my classic Mercedes Roadster. She looked back over her shoulder as if she thought the hounds of hell were on her heels. “Get out of Sunflower County before Oscar changes his mind and sends the state troopers after me. That man has been on me like white on rice for the past two weeks. I’m about to go stir-crazy. He’s even gone shoe shopping with me!”

The sun was just coming over the horizon, and the day was dawning bright and clear. Perfect travel weather.

“I’m surprised Oscar let you leave Hilltop with me.” I turned away from Tinkie and Oscar’s beautiful estate and onto the road leading southwest toward New Orleans.

“When you called yesterday, I thought he would have a conniption,” Tinkie admitted. “He doesn’t blame you, Sarah Booth, but he associates you with danger.” She frowned. “Well, maybe he blames you some. He thinks you talk me into doing things, and no matter how many times I tell him that nobody talks me into anything, he wants to blame someone other than me.”

I understood. Every time Tinkie and I got involved in a case, one or both of us ended up in a bad situation. I honestly didn’t blame Oscar for wanting to keep us apart. I also knew Tinkie well enough to know that Oscar, despite his best intentions, wouldn’t come between us. He couldn’t. In the months since I’d returned to Zinnia, Tinkie and I had grown closer than sisters. It wasn’t that she loved Oscar less, but she’d developed a new dimension of her personality. She’d become her own woman, and that woman was a bang-up private investigator and stalwart friend.

“We’ll check on this mailbox in New Orleans, have lunch in the French Quarter, and head home.” This was the scenario I’d thought through a dozen times. Except for traffic or an unforeseen accident, there wasn’t a sign of danger.

“Maybe we could hit a few of the little boutiques in the Quarter. There’s this fabulous lingerie store. If I find just the right thing, maybe I can jolly that frown off Oscar’s face.” Tinkie tied her scarf tighter under her chin in a very Marilyn Monroe gesture. I had no doubt she’d have Oscar eating out of the palm of her hand in the near future.

“Sure. Lingerie would be a nice touch.”

“We could find you something sexy, take a photo with your phone, and send it to Graf. That should knock him off his high horse.”

I sighed. With Tinkie, I could be honest. “I don’t think it’ll be that simple, Tink. Yesterday I left him a message pretty much saying if he wouldn’t even give me a chance to explain, I’d return his ring. I can’t do this. If we can’t even talk, we don’t stand a chance.”

I expected Tinkie to argue, but she didn’t. The miles rolled past as the wind whipped at my hair and her scarf. We were driving topless—in convertible mode—and the heat beat down on us.

At last she broke the silence. “Graf feels out of control. He’s across the continent, and he’s working fourteen-hour days finishing his film. Don’t do anything rash, Sarah Booth. Don’t break the engagement until he has time to think this through.”

Her advice was sound. I nodded. “Okay. It’s just so hurtful that he won’t even hear me out.”

“Oscar behaves like that, but he’s right here in Zinnia. He can hardly avoid me. Once Graf finishes the film, you can go out there and talk to him. This has to be done face-to-face.”

“He mailed me the engagement ring,” I reminded her.

“It’s one thing to receive a ring by mail, and quite another to return it. Daddy’s Girl Rule number sixty-three: Never break up by letter or phone. The severing of an engagement demands a personal meeting. To do less is to dishonor what you shared. Both parties deserve a chance to fully express their feelings. Good Lord, do you realize people are breaking up by text message these days? What is the world coming to?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. The Daddy’s Girl handbook had a rule for everything. The older I grew, the more I appreciated that fact. Good manners often made bad situations more tolerable.

I turned on the radio, and we listened to the blues as we flew along the near-empty highways of the Mississippi Delta, the triangle of rich soil that stretched from Memphis down to Vicksburg, bordered by the Mississippi River on the west and rolling hills on the east. The smell of earth, baking in the sun, gave me a sense of deep connection. A million different shades of green rippled out from the wild roadside grass to the darker green of the horizon. A yellow crop duster buzzed low over the fields. This was September in the South, the last of the blistering heat, the time when bolls burst with cotton.

Tinkie and I chatted and laughed. It was good to be out of Zinnia and on an adventure, even a tiny one. Instead of the more scenic route along the river, we went south to Jackson and then crooked southwest, aiming for the City that Care Forgot. The hours passed pleasantly and we made it to the outskirts of New Orleans by lunch.

“Shall we eat or shop first?” Tinkie asked.

“Let’s head to the post office and see what we can find before we become ladies of leisure,” I suggested. We’d hatched a plan, and the outcome would depend on how well both Tinkie and I could act.

“If you insist.” Tinkie pulled the letter Madam Tomeeka gave me from her pocket. “It was mailed from the French Quarter post office. Just leave the postal clerks to me,” Tinkie said with a wink. “I didn’t wear this minidress for nothing.” It was a rather eye-catching outfit.

I pulled into the parking lot, glad the post office wasn’t too busy. “Give it your all.”

In the lobby, we each took a different line. When I got to the counter, I asked to pick up the mail from the P.O. box number listed on the letter sent to Marjorie Littlefield. The clerk assessed me. “I don’t have any instructions to turn mail over to anyone.” She waved me away. “Next!”

I didn’t budge. “My employer asked me to retrieve the mail. She said it would be a large bundle. She’s in town for the weekend and wants to go through it. She was supposed to make the arrangements.”

“I’m very sorry, but unless you have something in writing…” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Now, there are people waiting. Move along.”

National security issues had changed a lot of things. Back in the good old days, I’d often picked up the mail for various neighbors. Of course, it was Zinnia and I had been known as “the Delaney child.”

“If I don’t bring the mail back to her, she’ll fire me.” I put on my most worried expression.

From the far end of the counter, Tinkie’s yelp of pain drilled my ears, right on time. When I looked, she was on the floor, wriggling and screaming as if she’d broken her spine.

“Help! I slipped on a slick spot. Help!”

Postal workers poured out of the back and rushed around the counter to help Tinkie. The other postal patrons backed away. Tinkie was putting on quite a performance, and showing about two miles of shapely leg as she did it.

“I really need to pick up the mail.” I pressed the point, hoping Tinkie’s distraction would gain me information, at the least.

“Excuse me. I have to call a supervisor,” the clerk, whose name tag read
MABLE
, said.

“Mable, all I know is Sherry asked me to bring the mail. I don’t have a choice here. If I go back to her empty-handed, she’ll be furious.” Though the clerk clearly wanted to do something to help Tinkie, I kept talking. “Call her and ask. Can you do that?”

Tinkie let out a screech that made my ears ring. In the echo chamber of the post office, it was like an ice pick in my head. Several people waiting in line covered their ears and ran out of the building.

“The mail is sent to her each week. I’ve received no instructions to change anything.” Mable was done with me. “Could you step aside, ma’am? There are others waiting.”

“No, I cannot step aside. Sherry sent me for the mail, and I don’t want to get fired. Call her and ask. Can you do that? Just call and ask.”

The clerk’s face reddened. “Not my job,” she said. “If you want to get Sherry Westin’s mail, you’re going to have to bring a notarized letter telling me that. Otherwise we’ll mail it to her Friday, like we always do. Now,
please
step aside and let others be served.”

I pulled out a notepad. “There’s a problem here, Mable. Are you mailing everything to 113 Brady Lane? Sherry said she didn’t receive any mail last week. That’s one reason she wants me to get it now.”

She rolled her eyes. “We sent it to Layland. Like always. Now, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, Miss—”

“Layland, Mississippi?” I couldn’t believe it. Layland was a crossroads community in Sunflower County. It wasn’t half an hour from Zinnia. As far as I knew, there were five farmhouses and miles of cotton. Certainly not an organization like Heart’s Desire. Perhaps that was the appeal of the location—anything could be tucked away in the vast woods, brakes, and fields.

“Who are you?” the clerk demanded. “I’m calling the postmaster right now.”

Tinkie let out another heartrending scream as two employees helped her to her feet. Her knees buckled and she almost went down again. She would have had they not supported her. “I need an ambulance,” Tinkie cried out. “I need medical attention. My lawyer will sue this place out of existence. I slipped on a slick spot on the floor. This is a dangerous, dangerous place. I think my spine is damaged.”

She didn’t slow down to draw a breath.

“Thanks for your help, Mable.” Before she could answer, I skedaddled out of the post office and waited outside for Tinkie. In a few moments, she appeared, supported by two strong clerks. Both male. Tinkie did have a way with the menfolk, and her tight red jersey skirt and matching five-inch heels were a siren call.

“You are so big and strong. I thought for a minute I’d be crippled for life, but I’m feeling much better now.” Tinkie looked up at first one, then the other.

The people inside the post office pressed against the window, watching Tinkie. I eased down beside the car. Out of sight, out of mind.

She profusely thanked the men and let them know she was perfectly fine before she finally got in the car. When the coast was clear, I followed suit.

“What did you find out?” Tinkie asked.

“Her name is Sherry Westin, and she’s in Layland, Mississippi.”

Tinkie’s eyes widened. “That’s just around the corner from Zinnia.”

I nodded as I pulled out of the parking lot.

“Is it time for lunch and shopping?” Tinkie’s brain had jumped ahead to the next thing on her to-do list.

“First call Cece and ask if she can dig up some dirt on Sherry Westin in New Orleans and Layland, Mississippi.” Cece Dee Falcon was a fine journalist, but more important, a loyal friend. Her skills had come in handy more than once. While Cece’s family had disowned her over her sex change operation, her friends supported her in her quest to be the best she could be. Gender wasn’t part of the equation.

Tinkie made the call, and when Cece was on the line, she revealed what we’d discovered. As I drove down the crowded one-way streets of the French Quarter, Tinkie waited. At last she spoke. “Bert Steele, a photographer for the
Times-Picayune
. Perfect. Thanks, Cece. We’ll give him a call.”

There was another moment of silence as Tinkie listened. “Okay, keep looking if you have any free time.”

She closed her phone and turned to me. “Nothing on the Westins in Mississippi. There’s plenty about New Orleans. Cece would only say they were an interesting mother–daughter team and she gave me Bert Steele’s number to ask him to meet us for lunch today. He knows more about the Westins than anyone else, she said. It’s serendipitous because he just called her this morning about some photos for the Black and Orange Ball she organizes each year. Bert always photographs the models.”

I drove slowly along Canal Street, taking in the sounds and smells of the South’s most cosmopolitan city. New Orleans was a mixture of dozens of cultures. Hurricane Katrina had wrecked her, but she was rising from the ashes. I made a turn and stayed within the region of the Vieux Carré while Tinkie dialed Bert Steele.