Bones on the Bayou: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Short Story (2 page)

Dawn’s fuchsia arrival found Harold and me cruising beside Silver Bayou. The gentle creek wound through Shaw and open fields as it traversed Bolivar and Sunflower counties on the way to the river. The brisk cold gave the air a clarity that frosted the cotton stubble in the fields to a sparkling silver in the growing light. In the distance, I spied a black Land Rover resembling Oscar’s ride. “Is that—?”

“Yes.” Harold sped up. The dogs had fallen asleep in the back seat, but Pluto had his front paws on the dash and viewed the scene with interest.

“What in the hell has Oscar been up to?” I asked. I’d hoped to find him at the hunting camp, possibly holding Enzo hostage. This didn’t look good. Not at all.

We parked behind the Land Rover, and I let the dogs out. Sweetie Pie, a hound, hit a trail instantly that went from the edge of the water, across the road, and into a fallow field. Roscoe, part terrier and part imp, was hot on her heels.

“Time’s a’wastin’” I said as I took off at a run. Harold and Pluto examined the abandoned car and then followed behind me. Harold was in a hurry, but not Pluto. Cats are systemically opposed to the appearance of rushed.

The dogs made it into the tree line at the edge of the field, almost two miles from the road, before they stopped. Sweetie bayed success, her voice echoing as she danced around a body lying face down in a heap of fallen leaves. For a moment I thought Oscar was dead, but he moaned and shifted. Ice crystals froze his clothes to the leaves, and when he struggled, the ice crackled.

“Oscar!” Harold caught up with us and knelt beside him. “Oscar, sit up.”

Oscar tried to oblige, but his body wasn’t cooperating. I could smell the alcohol from where I stood. Even Sweetie’s eyes watered.

“How dare he try to seduce my wife?” Oscar gained an upright position, but he wove back and forth. “Well, I showed him.”

My gut clinched. Beneath Oscar, pressed into the leaves, was a pistol. Harold saw it too.

“Oscar, where is Enzo?” Harold shook him lightly. “What did you do?”

“He won’t chase any more women.” Oscar slumped back to the ground, his eyes rolling up in his head.

“Call Ms. Tierce. Oscar needs a good lawyer,” Harold directed me as he lifted Oscar to his feet. “And don’t touch the gun.”

“We can’t leave it here.” I had the attorney’s number in my phone and I searched for it as I argued. “I mean, if it’s been shot…”

“We can’t hide evidence.” Harold sounded angry, but he was worried.

“It’s Oscar,” I reminded him. “My best friend’s husband.” I’d never viewed Oscar as a man with emotional issues, but he’d been so unreasonably upset at Enzo’s and Tinkie’s ridiculous flirtations--their behavior had bordered on soap opera caricature. “Oscar wouldn’t shot someone over a bit of foolishness.”

“The evidence speaks to the contrary,” Harold said. “Pick the gun up, but don’t touch it. If something terrible has happened, it may exonerate Oscar.”

I used a stick to snag the gun at the trigger guard. Harold was right. Until we knew what Oscar had done, we had to preserve all evidence.

“Call Tinkie,” Harold said as he put Oscar’s arm around his neck and half dragged, half carried him toward the road. It would be a long trek and Oscar did nothing to help himself.

“I’ll get the Land Rover and drive across the field.” The SUV could manage the terrain.

“Hurry,” Harold said. “I’m afraid Oscar is suffering from hypothermia. He’s wet from the waist down.”

Not what I wanted to hear. It implied Oscar had been in the bayou.

Cece Dee Falcon, reporter for
The Zinnia Dispatch
, arrived at the Sunflower County Hospital with her camera and notebook. Instead of asking questions, she sat down beside Tinkie and hugged her hard. “What the hell happened? I just got back from Shaw. The Italian delegation is hysterical over Enzo’s disappearance. They claim he’s been kidnapped by someone opposed to the development. Of course I believe he’s in the sack with a woman. If he is being held hostage, it’s by a jealous husband!”

I gave her the mean frown and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Is Oscar okay?”

Doc Sawyer came into the waiting room, his expression grim. “Tinkie, your husband will be fine. Had he stayed out in the cold any longer, though, he would have lost his toes and maybe his fingers and nose. What possessed him to get drunk, crawl in a lake, and then lay out in a cotton field?”

“You’ll have to ask Oscar.” Tinkie gripped my hand.

On the way to the hospital, Harold and I concocted our cover story for Oscar. We claimed we’d found him in a field near Finch Lake. We had not lied to Sunflower County’s top law officer, Coleman Peters. Yet. And truthfully, I didn’t know if I could. But Oscar deserved a chance to explain himself—which he couldn’t do until he woke up.

“I doubt he’ll remember his motivations,” Doc said, shaking his head slowly so that his wild white hair bobbed like a dandelion. “He’s asleep. He’ll probably stay that way until this evening. It’s the best thing for him. Now all of you skedaddle. You can’t help him sitting in the hospital and you’re cluttering up my waiting room.”

“Let me drive you home, Tinkie,” Harold suggested. “Take a hot shower, change your clothes, then Sarah Booth will fetch you and Chablis.” He arched his eyebrows at me.

“Of course. Since your car is at my house, I’ll pick you up and you can help me decorate for our holiday repast. We need to develop a theme and plan menus and select the music. I want everything to be perfect. By the time we do all of that, Enzo will be found and Oscar will be hungry.”

“Trust me,” Cece said sotto voce, “Sarah Booth needs all the help decorating she can get. Her idea of a themed table setting is when all the paper plates and sporks are the same pattern.”

I didn’t care that Cece made me the butt of the joke as long as we got Tinkie out of the hospital. Harold and I hadn’t told her the truth and I didn’t intend to. I would protect her from even thinking Oscar had anything to do with Enzo’s disappearance—that path led nowhere good.

Cece, who had once been our high school chum, Cecil, until she’d courageously demanded the body she felt she deserved, was another matter. Her nose for news couldn’t be denied. As soon as Harold and Tinkie left, she was on me like white on rice.

“What does Oscar have to do with Enzo’s vanishing act?” she asked. “And don’t pretend. You may be a good actress, but you are a terrible liar when it comes to me.”

“Let it go.” I headed across the hospital parking lot— Cece’s grip on my shoulder stopped me. “Seriously, Cece, I can’t talk. I can’t. For Tinkie’s sake.”

“You are sitting on a big story like a mother goose on an egg.” She walked around me, her fashion boots clacking on the asphalt. “Oh, you know I can’t stand it when someone holds out on me.”

Cece had a nose for news, and she always got the story. Not this time. Not until Harold and I could clear Oscar. “If I told you, it would put you in the position of hurting your friend. Gravely hurting her. I won’t tell.”

“Dar-link!” Cece hugged me. “I see the burden in your eyes. What the hell happened? I figure Enzo pushed his luck with a lady too hard. Jealous lover or jealous husband, or possibly another jealous woman.”

“I can’t help you.” I walked toward my car.

“Where was Oscar all last evening?”

I shook my head. I had to establish Oscar’s alibi before I gave any details. Harold and I had already tampered with evidence and were withholding pertinent facts—if it turned out Enzo was truly missing.

“Remember Wildene Jones from Panther Holler?” Cece asked.

“Yes.” What trip down memory lane was Cece taking? Wildene had lived up to her name at Ole Miss. She’d turned a sorority upside down with her sexual hi-jinx and eventually was expelled from the university. She’d gone on to make a fortune as a personal shopper for the Delta’s rich and famous. She could pick out everything from a car to a toe ring and it was always exactly what the person wanted. Her success at nailing the perfect gift had become legendary, and she now worked for several lobbyists in Washington D.C. I’d heard she had an annual gift buying budget of ten million a year from her various clients. She’d been at The Club, but had remained in the background. I’d seen her several times watching Enzo and Tinkie practice the art of the tease.

“Enzo and Wildene had a public set to yesterday afternoon before he came to the party at The Club. Seems like he’d paid her to buy some gifts for his wife and family back in Italy, and something went awry.”

“Wife?”

“Don’t act like a rube. Surely you realized Enzo was married. Those men always are.”

“He didn’t act married.”

She gave me a weary smile. “Neither did Tinkie. It’s all a game, Sarah Booth. Only those without a clue get hurt. Enzo’s charm and philandering is what make him valuable to the delegation. He charms the wife or daughter or fiancée and she opens the door to a business meeting. It’s what’s expected. Just as Tinkie works her magic for your cases.”

“But Tinkie is all talk and no action.”

“Tinkie is a lady. Enzo is a man. Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Thanks for the tip,” I said. “Now stay out of it. Talk to Pret over in Shaw and Doc and do your story. Forget about Oscar.”

“I will as long as I can,” Cece said, and I understood her completely. The truth was, no matter which way I turned, this was going to be a wretched Christmas for those closest to me, unless I uncovered Enzo’s whereabouts and returned him, safely, to the bosom of his delegation.

My Christmas tree glimmered with lights, ornaments, and tinsel. Though such holiday trimmings weren’t in vogue any longer, I loved them. I pulled every box of family decorations from the attic and glamored the tree until it looked like a “fancy woman in a cheap brothel” as my aunt Loulane would say.

Tinkie walked around the tree speechless. “I haven’t seen some of these decorations for twenty years. Is that a homemade ornament with your photo from sixth grade?” she finally asked.

“I made it for my mother.”

“Sarah Booth, not to be cruel, but throw that ugly thing away. I clearly remember the year. You refused to wear a bra because it interfered with catching the football. Your nipples are distinctive and your teeth are too big for your mouth. You look like you could gnaw your way to freedom from the Count of Monte Cristo’s cell.”

“Those were good days.” I had been a tomboy, but I’d had a happy, happy childhood.

“Lucky you outgrew those teeth.”

“I could check out your photo in the school yearbook. I remember you had a thing for skorts and peasant blouses.”

“How can you remember that far back?”

I threw a pillow at her. “Because your few fashion missteps are burned into my brain. Those peasant tops had all those ruffles, and you still had a little baby fat around your neck. Harlan Dunlop called you Chicken Little because you ran around the playground with ruffles flouncing.”

“Stop it.” Tinkie tried to sound stern but she was laughing. “Remember the day you were playing touch football and Danny Cunningham grabbed the skirt of your dress and ripped it right off. You were standing there in your petticoat and panties. They had to call your mama to pick you up. Miss Graham, the secretary, put the principal’s coat on you and stood at the curb until your mama got there.”

It was a painful and humiliating memory, but hearing Tinkie tell it took the sting out. At last I was able to laugh about it. “Those were some good days. No worries, no troubles. Call Mama and she came to the rescue.”

“Yes, each childhood should have that element of safety and security.” Tinkie sighed, her hand straying to one of my favorite ornaments. “And where did you find blown glass horses? They’re beautiful.”

“Family collectibles. Aunt Loulane bought them the year my parents died.” I was happy to spend the morning yammering about Christmas decorations. Anything other than the questions I knew were about to geyser from Tinkie.  Once she recovered from the shock of Oscar’s near death, she would demand plenty of answers.

Harold rang my cell phone, and I stepped into the dining room to answer.

“I found a tube of lipstick in Oscar’s car,” Harold said. “It isn’t a shade Tinkie would wear. Too garish.”

Harold was a completely masculine guy, but he paid attention to the little details. If he said Tinkie wouldn’t wear the lipstick, the important questions became who would and how did it get into Oscar’s car. I had a very bad feeling that Oscar had imbibed too much and decided to do a little flirting on his own, which may have led to the blow up doll prank. If that was the only thing he’d done, no worries. Probably not the best conduct for the president of a bank, but certainly not as nefarious as kidnapping Enzo Aceto.

“Interesting.” I couldn’t say more because Tinkie hung at my shoulder. We needed to find the owner of the lipstick. And fast. And we needed to find Enzo. If Oscar had stashed him somewhere, Harold would have to wring the information out of Oscar as soon as he woke up. The lipstick would be my job.

“There’s more.” Harold’s tone was terse. “I found three dark hairs on the backseat of Oscar’s SUV. I have them in plastic baggies. What should I do?”

Tinkie remained at my elbow. “We’ll decide later.”

“Can you get Millie or Cece to keep Tinkie?” Harold asked.

“It’s possible.” Millie Roberts ran the local café in Zinnia. She was always up to her earlobes in work, but if it was a case of desperate need, she’d find a way to pin Tinkie under her thumb.

“Work on it.” He hung up.

I pivoted to face my partner. All of the questions she’d avoided asking were stampeding to get out. “What are you and Harold hiding?”

“It’s a Christmas surprise.”

“You don’t want to tell me.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “It must be something terrible.”

“Not at all.” I sounded like a sinner in thumbscrews. “We’re, uh, planning a skit. For Christmas Eve.”

“You are such a bad liar, Sarah Booth. You didn’t find Oscar at Finch Lake. He was somewhere along Silver Bayou, wasn’t he? Oscar instigated that stupid blow-up doll prank.”

I couldn’t confirm or deny it. “Please, Tinkie. Let me do what I can to find the truth before this gets blasted out of proportion.”