Buried Bones (12 page)

Lawrence
, upon his return to Zinnia, had been put up in the Sunflower Hotel, a Delta luxury establishment during the fifties. It had still been in operation when I was a little girl. My father went there in the mornings to sit in the shoeshine chair and let Old Mose buff up his shoes before he went to the courthouse. The lobby of the hotel was marble, and there were huge columns and always fresh flowers. I particularly remember the artwork, strange sculptures of men who were half beast. Centaurs and satyrs, my father had explained, reminding me that it would be rude to climb up on one and try to ride it.

I never saw one of the rooms. By the time I got old enough to consider the benefits of a hotel room, the Sunflower had burned and been razed. But I had heard frequent stories about the elegance of the rooms with draped beds and bath towels kept in warmers. It was a place
Lawrence
would have enjoyed.

This time the reporter, one Sarah Gillespe, had gone into great detail. The focus was the death threats
Lawrence
had been receiving, always late at night, always from a man, who threatened him with "a bullet to the brain" if he didn't "quit humiliating the university and get out of town."

Ole Miss was famous for its devoted alumni, and though the formal education there had been known to knock the rough edges off more than a few graduates, no school could be expected to completely change the genetic structure of a good ole boy.

As indicated in the story,
Lawrence
had taken the threats to the sheriff. The reporter went on to discuss the dispute between Lawrence and the school about the hotel bill.
Lawrence
refused to move to other, cheaper quarters, saying he'd been guaranteed a room at the Sunflower until his cottage at Ole Miss was available. Since there was to be no cottage, he was staying at the Sunflower until he could book passage back to
Paris
.

It would seem that
Lawrence
had them on breach of contract on two counts--if he had any of the deal in writing. Which was the crucial question never asked in the story.

There was one quote from
Lawrence
that stuck out. "Justice is only a word in this state. Money and power have always ruled in
Mississippi
, without regard to truth or right. It is a system of corrupt politics and decay."

It was not the eloquence that held me, but the fact that it didn't exactly fit in with the rest of the story. I made notes, jotting down the threats. It was apparent from the story that the sheriff, John Wayne Masters, had not shown much interest in acting in
Lawrence
's behalf. It was also clear that
Lawrence
had made the threats public as a thumb in the nose to someone.

I read the story again. There was something not right, but half a century of passing time and a lack of knowledge of the players had blurred the issues for me.

Why had Joseph Grace offered
Lawrence
a job and then reneged? What did
Lawrence
know that threatened Joseph Grace to the point that he would stir such a public stink? The bit about
Lawrence
not having a formal degree didn't hold water.
Lawrence
was a renowned and respected author and artist. He would add stature to any university program. Something else was involved, and I'd been a private investigator just long enough to realize that Dean Grace wasn't going to tell me voluntarily.

I closed my notebook and returned the newspaper reels to their slots. As difficult as my previous case had been, this one looked as if it would be harder.
Lawrence
's death was real and immediate even if the motive was buried in the past along with the bones of many of the people involved.

Living at Dahlia House, with the family cemetery just outside the kitchen window, I had a lot of traffic with the dead. Living with Jitty, I had a lot of abuse from the dead. Bones didn't scare me, but finding the places they were buried was a challenge.

The good news was that I had several leads. I could drive to
Oxford
and talk with Dean Grace, or I could talk with Madame. Or I could find Johnny Albritton, the local telephone man. Since I wasn't in a mood for ego or tears, I decided to find Johnny. We'd gone to school together, though he was a bit older.

I tracked him down at the Western Auto on
Main Street
in Zinnia. He was buying plumbing supplies for a new addition to his home, and he gave me a slow grin when he recognized me.

"Well, if it isn't the private detective," he said. "I read all about you in the newspaper."

"Don't believe everything you read," I warned him.

Cece had a way of exaggerating things. It worked to my benefit, but it was also a little embarrassing.

"What do you need, Sarah Booth?" he asked. "A wiretap?"

I rolled my eyes. "No, a little history."

"Now that doesn't sound too dangerous. Shoot." He was examining PVC pipe fittings as we talked.

"Back in the fifties, the old hotel in town, what kind of phone system did it have?"

"It would have been a central switchboard. If I recall, it was still in use in the early seventies when it burned. Now, that was a tragedy. They don't make buildings like that anymore." He looked at me through a two-inch fitting. "You haven't changed since high school, except maybe to look a little prettier."

"You always were a smooth talker." Johnny had been a standout on the basketball team and, though handsome, was so shy he hardly spoke to anyone. The joke around high school had been that he had to get his best friend to ask a girl for a date for him. "What would happen on the switchboard if a call came in to someone staying in the room?"

"The operator would plug in the call to the room and put it through." He put the pipe down. "Are you asking if the operator could listen in?"

"That, and could a call be traced?"

"Yes and yes." He braced one hand on a shelf and gave me his full attention. "What's this all about?"

"I'm writing a book," I told him. "I had an idea for some phone calls. Threats, you know, that kind of thing."

"Uh-huh." He picked up the same piece of pipe and dropped it in a basket at his feet. "There wasn't such a thing as a private call where a switchboard was involved.
The operator could
listen in whenever she chose. Not much has changed today. Almost every call can be traced, if you have the right setup and enough pull with the law."

"Thanks, Johnny."

"You're welcome, Sarah Booth. Let me know where I can buy this book you're working on."

His sarcasm pushed me down the aisle. Funny, back in high school I'd never suspected that he had wit. But I'd found out what I wanted to know. Sheriff Masters either had a good reason not to investigate
Lawrence
's complaints, or he didn't believe they were real. Or perhaps he had investigated and knew exactly who'd made the calls! John Wayne Masters was long dead or I could just ask him. That was a big problem with this case. A lot of people who had answers were six feet under.

Outside on
Main Street
, the sky had thickened with dark rolling clouds. It was perfect weather for watching daytime television, but I had a check for ten grand from Madame that was financial proof that she'd bought my time and energy--even if I never intended to cash it. I got in the Roadster and headed for
Oxford
. It was the day after Christmas, and I knew school was out for the long holiday break, but Grace had to live somewhere around the campus. He'd been in Zinnia the night before at
Lawrence
's party; perhaps I could catch him before he took off to visit relatives or whatever academicians did on holiday break.

The drive to
Oxford
covers more than distance. It is a metaphysical journey. The Delta is left behind, and the woodlands of
Mississippi
rise up tall and mysterious. In the Delta, life is simpler. Or at least the parameters are. There are the rich and the poor, the privileged and those who serve. Though the stark clarity is often cruel, I preferred it to the oak-shaded avenues of that venerable old state institution. I'd spent my time at Ole Miss. I knew that intellect was touted as god, but social position was still the determining factor. The quality of education couldn't be challenged. It was the social order that I could never accept.

I drove through the campus for old times' sake. I had forgotten the beauty of the trees and the gracious lines of the buildings. At the Lyceum I stopped the car, thinking about the young girl I'd once been. I'd gone to college with such expectations of what I could accomplish. My mother, before her death, had led me to believe that I could be anything I wanted. Aunt LouLane had taught me the machinations to accomplish the only goal a woman
should
want--matrimony. I could only wonder what both of them would think of how I'd turned out. PI work certainly wasn't a career option either would have considered.

I avoided the dormitories and made it to the English Department, which was locked tight. Everyone was on holiday. I happened upon a janitor, who unlocked the door and allowed me to snoop long enough to find Dean Grace's home address. God bless janitors and the urge to get even with those who have three-week holiday breaks.

I stopped at campus security and asked directions. Grace's home was out past Rowan Oaks. Long ago, on a hot summer night, I'd gone with a date to Faulkner's home. We'd both been callow enough to think it would be romantic to spoon beneath the huge oak trees that marked the spot where the writer had created characters driven by lust and greed and the gamut of primal human emotions. Whatever we'd anticipated, the reality had been vastly different. Sitting beneath the oaks in Lamar's convertible, I'd suffered an infusion of Satoris angst. It was not a night that added to my reputation as a hot date.

Dean Grace's home was three miles beyond Rowan Oaks, a two-story clapboard with a porch and modest gingerbread trim. It looked bookish. Very suitable for a man of his station. Even the pea gravel in his parking lot was uniform. There were two cars in the drive, a Volvo and a Sebring convertible. I had no difficulty telling which one belonged to the missus.

If he was surprised to see me, he didn't show it. He wore a burgundy cardigan, buttoned, with leather patches on the elbows, and a black and white checked tie. His hair was sculpted into that long sweep that bespoke his vanity even more than his natty attire. He answered the door, hesitated, then called out to his wife to make coffee.

I stepped inside the house, which smelled of cinnamon and cedar. Without looking back he led me to a living room dominated by a giant tree decorated with red ornaments and--incredibly--small blond dolls. It was the eeriest thing I'd ever seen in the annals of decorating. A hundred pairs of light, glassy, blue eyes watched me as I walked to the fireplace and warmed my legs. The little dolls were all dressed in red and green outfits, but it did nothing to detract from the feeling that they watched me with a certain malice.

"What brings you to
Oxford
?" Grace asked without preamble.

I detected more than a hint of hostility. "History."

"I'm afraid you're barking up the wrong tree." He smiled at his colloquial acumen.

"I wasn't barking," I said softly. "Not yet."

"What I meant was that my specialty is Chaucer.
The
Canterbury
Tales,"
he added, as if I needed the clarification. "History would fall more in the domain of Clarence Moore. He's"--he checked his watch--"still at home. I'm sure he would be glad to talk with you."

"Personal history," I said, and saw, with gratification, that he frowned.

"Tilda and I are getting ready to leave," he said, checking his watch again. I noticed it was a handsome sterling Rolex. He was a man with expensive taste.

"I won't keep you long," I assured him, casual yet determined. "It's about
Lawrence
."

"I heard he'd passed on. Excellent timing. One grand dinner party and then an exit with
Hollywood
attending. He couldn't have planned it better."

"It wasn't a shock, then?" I asked before I grasped what he was suggesting. "You think--"

"
Lawrence
was many things but clumsy was never one of them. He was a realist about the publishing world. Other than getting a celebrity to write the book, which he did, his best guarantee for a big audience was to die."

The audacity of his remark stunned me. Before I could respond, the sound of tapping heels signaled the entrance of Tilda Grace. I recognized her from
Lawrence
's party, but I was shocked to discover that she was Grace's wife. She carried a tray laden with coffee, two cups, and handmade chocolate treats. She didn't look at either of us as she put the tray on a table.