Buried Bones (16 page)

I let that whole worm box of marital loyalty pass right by. "Did Oscar say the manuscript was at the bank?"

Tinkie shrugged. "No, he didn't say one way or the other. And no one can find Harold this morning. Oscar's frantic."

10

Tinkie finished her coffee and fruitcake and finally decided that a visit to Madame Tomeeka was in order. Tomeeka, or Tammy Odom, was Zinnia's answer to Jeane Dixon. We'd been friends in high school, though she was a few years older, and I was honored to have her granddaughter named after my home. Even as I thought of baby Dahlia I felt a twinge in that mysterious region where the womb resides. Dahlia was the kind of baby that made motherhood seem like a viable career.

I saw Tinkie to the door and then rushed upstairs to dress. I wasn't exactly worried about Harold. He was a capable man. That was more the area in which my concern lay. He
was
capable. And eligible. As well as desirable. Brianna would see all of those things as clearly as I. And few men could resist her. She was beautiful and still maintained the aura of her modeling celebrity. I was dying of curiosity, well seasoned with a sprinkling of jealousy. I left the house and drove straight to Harold's.

As Tinkie had said, he wasn't home. His car wasn't in the garage. There was no hint that he'd been home the night before--I climbed the magnolia tree in old Mrs. Hedgepeth's yard next door and used my new binoculars to peep into his bedroom window. The bedspread was unrumpled.

Since I was out and about, I stopped by the hospital and checked with Doc Sawyer. No official word on the autopsy, so I moseyed on down to the newspaper and took Cece some Danish. She was conducting an interview and had no time to talk. I left her pastry and decided that a visit to Tomeeka might be a good idea for me, too.

I didn't believe in Tammy's powers to predict the future, but I didn't strictly disbelieve. As a student of psychology, I understood the
need
to believe in such things. As a child orphaned by a tragic and senseless car wreck, I had felt the whiplash of fate. Tammy held out the slim hope of controlling fate. The appeal was enormous. Perhaps she had no line on the future, but she was the best at dream analysis that I'd ever met--a match for Jung.

The dream about Jitty troubled me. Twelve men, sleek and stylish. Jitty at the head of the table. It was nothing like the dreams I'd had about dove fields, but I was curious to see what Tammy would make of it.

I slowly drove through my hometown, noting that the Bank of Zinnia was doing a steady business and that Harold's Lexus was not yet in the parking lot. I'd never known him to miss a day of work since I'd come home to
Sunflower
County
from
New York
. Where could he be?

With the swiftness of a gut-kick, I hatched a strong hunch. I swung a hard left in my little Roadster and headed north toward
Memphis
. I didn't have far to go, but as I drove I tried to argue myself out of believing what I already knew.

Rathbone House was on the outskirts of town, a two-hundred-acre estate where Brianna had hosted high school dances, tennis parties, horseback rides, shuffleboard tournaments, skeet shooting matches, and other soirees. Brianna had been the high school princess, the girl with everything and a father who doted on her every whim.
Layton
denied his daughter nothing, even when he should have. I remembered him in polished black boots that matched the Tennessee Walker he rode through the vast expanse of his fields. Pamela Rathbone was also a looker, but she faded beside her husband and daughter. The power of their illumination completely overshadowed her. When Brianna took her face to
New York
in the mid-eighties,
Layton
and Pamela transferred their address to Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. As far as I knew they never returned to the Delta. Rathbone House had been closed until Brianna's most recent return.

The wrought iron gates were locked, and Brianna had neglected to give me the code to open them. No matter. I parked on the side of the road and climbed over the fence.

The white shell drive, imported from
Biloxi
, showed fresh tire tracks. I scrunched down to it, not bothering to be discreet. I wasn't going to pay a call, I only wanted a look. I was halfway to the rambling stucco house with its Mediterranean terra-cotta roof when I saw Harold's Lexus. It was parked under a grouping of leafless walnut trees. The house, surrounded by a blanket of fresh snow, was like a postcard image of some faraway fantasy. I blinked several times, then had to accept the evidence. Harold had spent the night with Brianna.

My thumb gave a feeble pulse, and I turned around and headed back to the road. There was absolutely nothing I could do for him. He was drinking the spider's nectar. I knew too well the fatal appeal that Brianna had for men. But I'd always thought Harold too smart to fall for someone like her. I'd given him credit for putting the Big Head in command. It was another bitter lesson in the unreliability of men, and right on top of my disappointment with
Hamilton
. Yeah, Merry freakin' Christmas.

I made it to Tammy's just in time for lunch. The sight of Harold's car at Brianna's house had effectively killed my appetite, but Tammy put a plate of barbecued ribs, cole slaw, and turnips in front of me, and my taste buds revived.

We talked of
Lawrence
. Due to psychic-client privileges, she wouldn't discuss Tinkie's concerns with me, but Tammy was an avid fan of
Lawrence
's writing. She'd never met him, but she knew his work and was far better read than I.

"When I was pregnant with Claire, I read
Weevil Dance
about a thousand times," she said. Her smile was sad. "There was such magic in that book, such life. It gave me comfort, to allow my fancy to be led by his words. And he made history so romantic. Sad but romantic."

"Rosalyn Bell believes someone murdered
Lawrence
."

"I know," Tammy said. She got up from the table and walked to the window over the sink. The light from outside was bright, sun reflecting off the snow, which would be gone by the end of the day, melted into the gumbo of the soil. "Mrs. Bell hired you, didn't she?"

I didn't see the harm in telling. "Yes."

"And what do you believe, Sarah Booth? You saw the body." She still had her back turned to me, which was vaguely troubling.

"He didn't cut himself deliberately." That was the only truth I knew for sure. "I don't
think
it was an accident." I shifted in the chair so I could at least glimpse her profile. She was staring studiously out at the snow, as if it might explain everything.

"He was seventy-six and had lived quietly and alone for the past twenty years. If someone was after him, it had to be about his biography," she said.

"Is that a psychic revelation or a hunch?" I meant to be funny.

"Neither." She turned to face me. "You're the detective. I don't even know why I said anything. So, who's having the big New Year's Eve party in the circle of Daddy's Girls?"

I let the conversation drift, and we gossiped aimlessly for a few minutes. Brianna's name came up, and I told her of my recent discovery of Harold's assignation, doing my best to play it off as an amusing tidbit. As Tammy refilled the tea glasses, she didn't bother to hide her scrutiny of me.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked as she sat down across from me, finally holding my gaze. "You're not in love with Harold. You had a chance, and you picked
Hamilton
."

True. But facts had nothing to do with this. "She'll eat him alive."

Tammy arched her eyebrows. "That's not your concern, Sarah Booth."

True again, dang her. "I thought the future was your forte, not the present."

Tammy gave me a long look. "Now, that's a statement worthy of a Daddy's Girl."

Thrice true. "Ouch!" I rolled my eyes. "Accept my apology and let me tell you about my dream."

Jitty would have been impossible to explain, so I substituted myself in her role. Tammy listened attentively, asking a few questions about the color of the sunlight--pale yellow; the color of the men's hair--all darkened by a hair cream and combed back from the forehead; the arrangement of the room--very balanced, six men on each side of the table and Jitty in the center.

"The religious implications aren't lost on you, are they?" she asked. "Twelve disciples."

I shook my head. "I got the feeling that at any moment the entire cast might jump up and do a Broadway dance number. Not religious in tone."

She put her hand over mine. "Just testing, Sarah Booth." She grinned. "It's really pretty simple. There's an aspect of you that's trying to conduct your emotional life like a corporate board meeting. You dress your men in success, line them up, and then try to pick one like you would a stock. The sense of waiting is exactly that--once you choose, you think life will start. The dance will begin, and what a glorious number it will be. The band will swing, and you'll know all the dance steps." She squeezed my hand. "But the sunglasses mean that you're blind, as are the men. But this blindness is deliberate, self-imposed." Her grip tightened. "Be careful, Sarah Booth. Be wise with your heart and your body."

Wisdom is a passing thing, especially for a female Delaney. Tammy could counsel me all she wanted, but when I left her house I was no closer to an emotional or investigative conclusion than I had been before I arrived.

I was getting out of my car at Dahlia House when I heard the approach of another vehicle. Willem was coming down the drive, promptly at two, wearing his ten-million-dollar smile. It made me regret that I wasn't wearing something other than jeans and a sweater. I had the cutest red wool miniskirt. Willem was the kind of man who made me think of wearing such things.

"Hola,"
he said, getting out of the car. He came straight to me and lifted my hand for a kiss.

"Hola
to you." I was glad to see him. Harold's defection to Brianna had left a wound that needed the balm that Willem was a master at applying.

"Shall we drive?" He crooked his arm.

"We shall," I said, putting my hand on the bend of his elbow and allowing him to escort me to my seat. Ah, the sins that can be forgiven for the pleasure of good manners.

It was a luxury to sink back into the car seat and let Willem assume command. This is a sensation wasted on young girls, or true Daddy's Girls. These females live under the guardianship of a male. They can never fully appreciate the release involved with dropping the torch of independence, even for the brief interlude of a drive.

We headed out between the crisp fields of snow. The afternoon sun was already melting it in patches, but for long vistas there was only sparkling white so bright that it made my eyes ache. Far in the distance the snow picked up the lighter blue shadings of the sky so that the horizon was indistinguishable.

"Tell me, Miss Delaney, how someone of your beauty became an investigator. You have to admit, the image is usually one of sharp-eyed men with the shadow of a beard."

It was blatant flattery and I loved it. "Circumstance and a genetic predisposition to nosiness."

"Have you discovered any evidence in the matter of
Lawrence
?"

"Nothing concrete." I had no desire to discuss my suspicions.

"I really must find that manuscript."

The veneer of manners had slipped, revealing firm determination. I glanced over at him. "You and everyone else. Where do you suppose it is?" I baited him.

"I was hoping you could help me there."

I shook my head. "
Lawrence
didn't confide in me."

"And Mrs. Bell? She's offered no hint?"

"Even if she had, I couldn't divulge such information." I glanced out the window, wondering how to pump Willem about his secrets. It was at that moment that the car slowed and I realized we were turning down the drive to
Lawrence
's cottage at
Magnolia Place
. So much for yielding the helm of the ship to a man. I knew better than to disturb a crime scene.

"Will you help me find that manuscript?" Willem asked. "I have no one else to turn to but you, Sarah Booth. I'm desperate. Please help me."

I couldn't help but be turned on by his twinkling eyes or feel deeply touched by his words. Willem was a man who knew the right buttons to punch. But I was also older and wiser than I'd been a holiday before. "This isn't a good idea."

He stopped the car in front of
Lawrence
's cottage. The yellow crime scene tape fluttered around the front porch in the breeze and he turned to me, waiting. "I must see what he's written. The manuscript has to be inside the cottage, unless someone else took it.
Lawrence
was going to show it to me."

I hadn't ruled Willem out as a suspect, but he was rather convincing in his talk of searching for the manuscript. It stood to reason that if he'd murdered
Lawrence
, he would have it.