Bones to Pick (15 page)

I trudged around to the front and stopped. A car was pulling down the driveway. A car I didn't know. I looked down at my jeans, spattered with mud from my ride. My hair was unbrushed, my face daubed with dirt. I wasn't prepared to entertain guests, but I didn't have a choice. The champagne-colored town car barreled toward me at breakneck speed. The dark-tinted windows concealed the occupants. I stood at the edge of the lawn as the car slid to a stop in the loose oyster shells only five feet from me.

The driver's window lowered automatically. A veil-covered face was revealed. It took me a moment to recognize Marilyn Jenkins.

"Do you have a moment, Miss Delaney?" Marilyn asked. "Lorilee and I want to talk to you."

"About what?" It was my understanding that graduates of the
Carrington
School
for Well-Bred Ladies didn't just show up at someone's door.

"About Quentin's murder. We may have some information."

Sighing, I signaled them out of the car. I walked to the porch and waited. Together, we walked into Dahlia House. I herded them toward the office.

"Sarah Booth, how quaint that you'd set up your office in your home." Marilyn's amber-tinted fingernail traced the glass door with mine and Tinkie's name stenciled on it.

'Yes, quaint is exactly the word I would have used." I showed them to chairs in front of my desk. Psychologists were correct; the desk gave me an advantage. I sat behind it and smiled. "I would have thought you two would have gone to talk to Tinkie."

"We did," Lorilee said. "She wasn't home. The maid was rather rude to us. She said that all official detective business was done out here at Dahlia House." She looked around the room. "I could give you some tips on decorating. I redid my brother's real estate office, and it turned out stunningly, if I do say so myself. The social status of his clientele rose instantly."

"Thanks, but our client status is just fine." The Lorilee I remembered from Ole Miss was completely gone. The shy young woman of my memories had been replaced by a tigress. She'd even traded in her brown hair for tawny curls.

"I suppose. Folks who need a private investigator are criminals, after all," she drawled.

"What can I do for you?" If I hurried to find out what they wanted, maybe they would leave.

"We know who killed Quentin." Marilyn tilted her head.

"Oh, really? Have you told Deputy Walters?"

"We thought we'd let you do that," Marilyn said. "We don't want to get involved."

"You know who the murderer is, but you don't want to get involved? Okay, so who did it?" I didn't have a lick of faith in their accusation, but I was curious.

"Jolene Loper." Lorilee sat forward, her brown eyes intense. "That's who we figure did it."

"Do you have any proof?" I didn't know who Jolene Loper might be, and I didn't want to give them the satisfaction of asking. I hoped to draw it out of them.

"Proof!" They spoke in unified outrage.

"That would be the necessary ingredient before you ruin someone's reputation."

"Jolene's capable of anything. We've known her for years." Marilyn jutted her chin out in defiance.

"Tell me what you have," I said.

"Did you see Jolene at the funeral?" Marilyn asked.

How could I tell the difference among the conservatively dressed Stepford wives? "No."

"She was wearing the burgundy suit." Lorliee could barely suppress the shudder. "She sat at the back of the room."

I did remember a woman dressed in a burgundy suit. I'd only caught a glimpse of her, a cardinal amongst the wrens, and I hadn't figured her for a Carrington graduate. While red was my favorite color, it wasn't on the approved list at Virgie Carrington's school. "I saw her." So what? was left unsaid.

"Tacky, tacky, tacky." Marilyn's lip curled. "A football color. At a funeral."

Had Tinkie not brought me a navy suit, I might have shown up in jeans. "I doubt tackiness is such a grave character flaw that it leads instantly to murder. If you don't have something more concrete"--I rose--"I have business to finish."

They looked at each other and smiled. "We have more."

"Then spill it." I sat slowly.

"Jolene had an older sister," Marilyn said. "Belinda. She was several years ahead of us at school, but the stories lingered on and on."

Lorilee rolled her eyes. "The Loper girls simply weren't Carrington material. I realize Mrs. Carrington was trying to help them, but it was a true disservice. In many ways, they were as out of place as Quentin and Allison were."

"They wore red lipstick and bleached their hair blond," Marilyn said.

"Not just blond, that white blond that looks so fake." Lorilee flipped her own multitoned tawny locks off her shoulder. "I mean cosmetics are meant to improve, not create a freak show."

I didn't have to say a word. The two women were capable of bouncing the conversation between themselves without any help from me.

"Belinda died last year." Marilyn shrugged. "It was a bizarre accident."

Now that was interesting. "What happened?"

"She had a beauty salon in
West Memphis
. She inhaled some dry peroxide and had an allergic reaction. Or at least that's the story I heard." Marilyn had the decency to look sorry.

"Well, it just goes to show that you can only expose yourself to so much of a toxic substance. She put enough of it on her head that I guess she used up her quota." Lorilee rubbed her perfect nail polish with her pointer finger. "I realize it's poor form to speak ill of the dead, but that beauty shop Belinda ran was a scandal."

Her eyes were bright with malice as she leaned forward. I instinctively withdrew.

"That salon catered to nothing but whores."

"Even hookers need to look good," I said, trying to lighten Lorilee's intensity.

"Well, if that's true, then they only looked good for their clients. It wasn't their heads Belinda was working on." She smiled. "I guess you could call it Cooter Couture." She put a hand over her mouth to signify that such a phrase was embarrassing, even to her.

"How did you find out about this?" As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized how dumb they were.

"Page 447. Quentin goes into great detail about how Belinda used the horror of September eleventh to her personal benefit. She gave all those whores a red, white, and blue dye job on their private parts and made it seem like screwing them was a patriotic deed." She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back in her chair.

The Loper girls were younger than me by nearly a decade, but I had heard that Belinda Loper ran a top-end salon in
West Memphis
. I just hadn't realized what "top end" signified. But Lorilee's animosity seemed a little beyond Belinda's betrayal of the Carrington tradition. If I had to bet, it would be that Lorilee's male interest had paid a few trips to the red, white, and blue. Marilyn Jenkins, on the other hand, looked uncomfortable at the turn the conversation had taken.

The red telephone on my desk gave a brisk ring, and I picked it up with some relief. No one could be worse than Lorilee Brewer.

"Sarah Booth, I've been to see the Tatums, and we need to talk."

Tinkie was driving a hundred miles an hour with the window of the Caddy down. I could hear the wind rushing. "Stop by Dahlia House."

"I'll be there in half an hour."

Marilyn Jenkins rose. "If Lorilee is finished spewing venom, I think we should leave." She didn't wait to see if Lorilee followed. She got up and left.

My admiration for Marilyn was cut short when Lorilee put her hands on my desk and leaned to within ten inches of my face. "Marilyn is just upset. Her mother was a common slut, and Marilyn was terrified Quentin was going to print that in her second book. I guess the parallel to Belinda Loper was too much for her to take."

"Thanks for the hand grenade of a motive," I said, smiling brightly. "How long have you and Marilyn been friends?"

"Since first grade." She stood up and straightened her suit. "I can't wait to get to my room and out of this horrid outfit. I'll be in town for a few more days, should you need to talk with me again. I'm staying at The Gardens."

"Sure." It was the only syllable I could muster. I remained behind my desk as she left.

I'd barely gotten out a sigh of relief when Jitty drifted through the south wall of the room. "I hope you had your vaccinations," she said. "That woman is rabid."

"If she'll eviscerate a friend like that, imagine what she would do to someone who pissed her off."

"She'd be perfect at court," Jitty said.

Something in her tone caught my ear. I looked at her, really looked at her. Even beneath the ridiculous white face paint, she was pasty looking. "What's wrong? The glamour of the court wearing thin?"

"Don't be impertinent." She walked to the windows and looked out.

Jitty was many things, but she was seldom melancholy. That was my specialty. "What's wrong?"

"What is happiness?"

Though she remained looking out the window at the sweep of Dahlia House's brown front lawn, I knew she wasn't teasing me. She was serious. Her back was rigid, and she stared as if her question would cavort across the lawn.

"It's a feeling, a sense of. . . contentment."

"Are you sure?"

Once she questioned me, I wasn't. "Do you think it's something more, like a spike of pleasure or a bubble of intensity?"

She shook her head. "I think it's knowing where you belong."

I took in her finery, the dress that must have taken ten seamstresses six months to create, the jewels that adorned her bosom, ears, and fingers. "You belong at court."

At last she turned to face me. "Today. That's where I belong today. But what about tomorrow or next week?"

"You belong here. At Dahlia House. With me."

Her smile was luminous, possibly because the light from the window was shining through her. "And where do you belong, Sarah Booth?"

That was a harder question. "This is my home," I said.

"But it doesn't bring you happiness."

"It holds the past, which gives me a sense of identity. That's part of happiness. You have to know who you are to know where you belong."

"One day you might belong somewhere else."

This conversation was making me uncomfortable. "The Buddhists believe that living in the moment is the ultimate happiness. And right now, this moment, I belong here at Dahlia House."

She reached out a hand, and I felt a cool breeze graze my cheek. "You're clever."

'Jitty, we have a case to work on. We have food. Sweetie Pie and Reveler are in good health. We have--"

"You have a suitor." Her smile was impish. "And I have to go because company's coming."

"Jitty, damn it! Wait!" But it was too late. She was gone in a shimmer of light. I shook a fist at the empty air. She was always getting in the last word and then vanishing. It was one of her worst ghostly traits.

My irritation was short-lived. A knock at the side door of the office forced me to straighten up.

"Sarah Booth, I found this up at the road. It was leaned against your mailbox." Tinkie walked in with a round tube tied with a black velvet ribbon. "Did you order maps or something?"

The package did resemble a mailing tube for posters or paintings or maps. But there was no mailing label, no stamp. Someone had hand delivered it. I opened one end of the tube. A slender black leather riding crop slid into my hand. Tied to the handle was a note.

If you want a really exciting ride, give me a call. Humphrey

Tinkie read over my shoulder. She gave a squeal of delight. "I don't think you'd need spurs for Humphrey. Are you going to call him?"

"Do you see a hole in my head?" I couldn't believe she was asking.

"Sarah Booth, he's a handsome man. You're all the time saying you don't want a serious involvement. This sounds like you could have your cake and eat it, too. Humphrey must be good in bed. I'll
bet he's very original." Her eyebrows rose suggestively. "That's the most creative invitation I've ever seen."

I put the riding crop down on my desk. "He's a client."

"Are you talking to yourself or to me?"

I plopped into my chair. "Enough about Humphrey. What happened at the Tatum's?"

12

"Before I reveal anything, I need food."

Tinkle's jaw had that set to it that let me know facts would not be forthcoming until she had food.

"Let's go to Millie's. The cupboard is bare here."

She dangled her keys. "We'll call on your cell phone and order. That way the food will be ready when we get there."

Tinkie was serious. She was starving. I followed her to the Caddy, and we roared down the driveway. By the time we got to the blacktop, I had her order phoned in.

We were seated at a table in the corner of the cafe in less than fifteen minutes. Millie brought iced tea and a basket of corn-bread muffins to tide us over until the real food came. As Tinkie slathered butter on the hot corn bread, she glanced around to be sure no one was listening.