Bones to Pick (25 page)

Ignoring Cece's chatter, I read the articles. I was on the third story when I found what I wanted.
Birmingham
police officer Clyde Marshall talked about the threatening note that Karla Jenkins had received only the week before her death.
The penalty for fornication is stoning.

I grabbed Cece's hand. "Thank you, Cece. You found the note. Marilyn's mother was definitely murdered." The full impact hit me, and I grasped Cece's hand in mid-swallow of soup.

"There's a serial killer on the loose."

Cece rolled her eyes. "Why do you think I rushed over here, dahling?"

I left Harold with orders to call Rachel. Were I not in the middle of a case, with a horse and a hound to care for, I would have been on a flight to
Acapulco
. Harold was just being hardheaded.

Even though it was after eleven o'clock, I tried Tinkie's cell again. Still no answer. I drove by Hilltop, but the house was dark. Maybe they were home, sleeping.

When I got to Dahlia House, I stepped over a small package in front of the door. I'd had it with Humphrey and his wicked surprises. I kicked the bow-laden box hard enough to send it careening into the shrubs by the side of the porch. I wasn't going to be suckered yet again by the mad humper.

When I got to the barn, Reveler was miffed at his late dinner. He turned his butt to me and ate. Sweetie, too, was pissed. She came out, sniffed my leg, and squatted to pee.

No one was happy to see me. I slipped in the back door and fed her some meat loaf, hoping to win her over. No such luck. She ate and went to sleep in the dining room.

Exhausted, I tiptoed up the stairs. I didn't have the strength for a confrontation with Jitty. She'd be mad, too.

I stepped onto the second-floor landing, expecting to hear her voice. There was only silence. I hurried to my bedroom, shucked off my clothes, and slipped beneath the quilts. I was asleep almost before I could turn off the bedside light.

My sleep was tormented by the dream cries of a baby. I awoke the next morning to the ringing telephone. Squinting against the late morning sun, I answered.

"Sarah Booth, this is Tammy Odom."

Tammy, also called Madame Tomeeka, was an old friend with psychic abilities. "What's wrong?" I wasn't psychic, but I could detect worry in her voice.

"Where's Tinkie?"

"At home." On second thought, I added, "Isn't she?"

"I had the strangest dream. Tinkie was . . . afraid."

"Have you talked to her?"

"No, that's why I'm calling you. I tried to call her this morning, but she didn't answer at the house or on her cell phone."

This wasn't good news. Tinkie wasn't the kind of person to make her friends worry. "I'll
go over to her house."

"Will you call me?"

"As soon as I know something."

I'd just replaced the telephone when it rang again. Coleman's low tones made me catch my breath as he said my name.

"Have you seen Tinkie lately?" he asked.

"No. I'm getting worried about her. I'm on my way over to Hilltop to see Oscar."

"Don't bother. He's standing right here. She didn't come home last night, and he's beyond frantic."

"Shit." It wasn't a ladylike expression, but it pretty much summed up the situation. "I'm on my way to the sheriff's office. Keep Oscar there. I want to talk to him."

"Hurry. He says he's going home to call the governor. He wants the National Guard to help hunt."

"Detain him." I hung up the phone, grabbed some clothes, and rushed out of the house. Sweetie Pie gave me a condemning look, and Reveler bucked and went running to the back of his pasture. I couldn't help it. I had to find Tinkie.

I floored it as I sped to the courthouse. It was Saturday morning, a busy time for downtown Zinnia. My high-speed passing created a tide of ill will, as pedestrians shot me the finger and shook fists at me. Too bad.

By the time I ran into the sheriff's office, I was panting. Coleman nodded at me, but I turned my attention to Tinkie's husband. "Oscar!"

He took one look at me and almost cried. "Did she say anything to you?" he asked.

This was touchy. I drew him into Coleman's office and shut the door. "I never spoke with her, Oscar. Did you talk to her at all yesterday?"

He shook his head. "She called me yesterday morning, before I talked to you. I didn't take her call. I was mad."

I put my arm around him. "I know. I know."

"You were with her. Did she say anything?"

This was going to be hard. "The last time I saw her, we were in Jocko Hallett's office. He told her you'd hired him for the divorce. She was pretty upset."

"I didn't mean it. I never intended to divorce Tinkie. I was just mad, and I wanted to hurt her the way she'd hurt me.

"We have to figure out where she went. Once we find her, you can talk to her, and everything will be okay."

"Happily ever after" wasn't my normal prognosis on relationships, but I did believe it for Tinkie and Oscar. They were meant for each other.

"I've called everywhere. Now her father is terribly upset."

"He hasn't heard from her?" I'd hoped Tinkie would call her daddy.

"Not a word." Oscar sat down in a chair and put his face in his hands. "This is all my fault. Tinkie's been impossible. I've been worried for weeks, but I shouldn't have reacted in anger."

"It takes two to tango, Oscar. This can't
all
be your fault. But enough whining, let's find her." I opened the door and signaled Coleman in.

He stepped into the doorway, and though I was worried sick about Tinkie, I couldn't help but feel a thrill. He was back. No matter that he was married, at least we could see each other, talk, solve cases. Find Tinkie.

"We're both worried." I gave him a rundown of what had occurred, leaving out the baby issue. Coleman had enough pregnancy problems of his own, and it was Tinkie and Oscar's secret, not mine.

"You've checked all the usual places?" Coleman asked.

"I don't know where she could be," Oscar said. "I've tried her friends, her family, her usual haunts."

I remembered Madame Tomeeka's dream. I didn't want to say anything to Oscar, but I needed to talk to Tammy. "I'll check around. Call me on my cell." I darted out the door and drove through town like a bat out of hell for the second time.

Tammy met me at the door before I could knock. Her house smelled of cedar and a roast that bubbled in the oven. The scent was so homey and comforting that I felt my shoulders begin to relax.

"Sit down," she said, and the expression on her face made me tense again. Tammy was not a charlatan. She had a serious link to another plane, and though many people came to her for a reading of their future as an entertainment, I knew she had a gift.

"Tell me."

"I'm worried." Her hands rubbed each other on top of the table. "In the dream, Tinkie was afraid. She was in a glass, or something like a bell jar. She kept putting her hands against the glass and pushing, but it wouldn't move. She called out, but no one could hear her."

"Did you have a sense of where she was?" If I'd been concerned about Tinkie before, now I was terrified. There was a serial killer on the loose, and we'd been tracking him or her.

Tammy shook her head. "It's confusing. The dream was so vivid. There were rulers all around her and shelves and shelves of books. Like a library. There was a table of cutlery, like knives and forks and things."

Dreams were never straight-up informative messages. Library shelves could mean anything from knowledge to decoration. Tinkie had a huge library at her home. As did Genevieve Reynolds. And Harold. And me, for that matter. Lots of older homes had libraries that were the accumulation of generations of readers.

"Is there anything else?"

She worried her hands again. "That's all I remember. Except Tinkie was wearing a navy suit and a white blouse with a bow tie."

"She's been wearing the uniform of the well-bred lady for several days now. It's the case."

Tammy nodded. "It didn't suit her."

I had a call to make. "Thank you, Tammy. I'll let you know as soon as I find her."

"If I have another vision, I'll call."

I hugged her tight. "Day or night."

I jumped in the roadster and burned rubber as I left. Cell phone in hand, I dialed Oscar. I didn't give him a chance to even say hello.

"Did Tinkie get any kind of note?" I asked.

"Note?"

"Like a threatening note. Like someone telling her to stop snooping. Something like that." I tried not to let on to Oscar how concerned I was, but my voice gave me away.

"You think someone has kidnapped her because she's snooping?"

"Oscar, did you check your mail?"

"I'm at home. Let me see."

There was the sound of papers shuffling. I was headed toward Hilltop at ninety miles an hour.

"There's nothing here except magazines and bills. Have you checked your mail, Sarah Booth?"

I did a 180 in the road and pointed the roadster toward Dahlia House. "No," I said. "I'll call you if I find something."

On the way home, I dialed Coleman. "This could be serious," I said. I told him about the notes and my theory about a serial killer. There was a long moment of silence.

"If this is true, Sarah Booth, Tinkie could be in real trouble."

"The killer always sends at least one note. Oscar says nothing came to Hilltop. Let me check my mail." I tore down the driveway, creating a cyclone of fallen sycamore leaves in my wake. As I skidded to a halt at the front door, I said, "I'll call you in a minute."

A week's accumulated mail was piled on my desk, and I went through it at lightning pace. Bills, bills, bills, a few advertisements, and more bills. Not a single strange envelope. I breathed a sigh of relief and then remembered the package on my doorstep. Humphrey. Was it possible Humphrey was the killer?

I dashed out the front door and jumped the balustrade to land in the huge azaleas. It took a little rooting around, but I found the package. It was white with a white bow. I opened it quickly.

There was nothing inside except a single sheet of white paper. My hands trembled as I unfolded it. The laser-printed words were crystal clear.
Poke your nose where it doesn't belong and it'll get chopped off.

I staggered back against the porch. My heart was thrumming. The threat had been made against me, but it was Tinkie who'd been taken.

Legs wobbling, I went inside to call Coleman.

19

Coleman poured a hefty portion of Jack over ice and handed the glass to me, To my shame, my hand was shaking so badly, the bourbon sloshed over my fingers. I put the glass down and tried to breathe.

"She's going to be okay." Coleman knelt in front of me, his forehead furrowed. "You have to get a grip. Tinkie is going to be fine."

It was a nice sentiment, but Tinkie was missing, and a murderer was still at large--a murderer who'd warned me about my nosiness. "Why didn't I read the note last night?"

"Sarah Booth, stop it!"

The harshness of his tone was as effective as a slap. I gulped in some air and sat up straight. He was right. Wallowing in guilt and doubt wasn't going to help anyone.

"Okay." I inhaled again. "Okay, what can we do?"

"All of the victims you've named received more than one note, is that right?"

I tried to think. "We're not certain about Karla, Marilyn Jenkins's mother. There was only one mention of a note in the newspaper article."

"It appears to me that the killer kills as a last resort. Once the victim has been warned and the warning unheeded, then he or she feels forced to kill."

"Most serial killers are white males in their thirties." I'd read a few profiler novels. Tinkie might accuse me of not being a reader, but it wasn't true.

Coleman actually smiled. "Perhaps we can find Hannibal Lecter and ask him for some tips."

My smile was shaky, but it was there, and it was rewarded by a gentle touch on my cheek. Coleman knew not to push it, though. Too much kindness and I'd crumple in a heap of self-pity.

"So what should we do?"

"Begin to figure out what all the victims had in common. We can't jump to the conclusion that Tinkie is in danger at all. It could be that she's simply gone away to think through her marriage."

"If that's the case, I'm going to kill her when I find her."

"I'll help." He stood up. "Karla Jenkins, Quentin McGee, Betty Reynolds, Belinda Loper. We have to find the common thread."

"They're all women."

"A good point. But there has to be something else."

"If Tinkie is in trouble, this is a change in the killer's method. This would be the first time one person received a note and a second person was . . . involved." I couldn't say hurt or killed. "I believe Betty Reynolds was killed accidentally. Genevieve was the target."

"Now you're thinking, Sarah Booth." He paced the parlor. "I agree. The dowels on that shelf were deliberately cut. The killer expected Genevieve to replace the books she'd taken down."