Buried Bones (19 page)

In the strange shift of weather that is accepted as winter in the Mississippi Delta, the day was balmy. The rise in mercury had melted the snow. It was nine o'clock and warm. On the spur of the moment, I let the top down on the Roadster and invited Sweetie Pie along for the ride. She wasn't exactly the type of dog that might be expected in a Chinese red Mercedes Roadster, but I found an old pair of sunglasses and a scarf, and Sweetie Pie was transformed into Connie Francis in
Where the Boys Are,
one of the beach movies Jitty had lately been brainwashed by.

We made a stop by the hospital first, and I was relieved to see Doc Sawyer standing out on the emergency ramp smoking a cigarette. His white hair caught the sun behind him, giving him the impression of a large dandelion that was about to combust.

"Hey, who's your friend. She's cute," he said, pointing to Sweetie Pie as I walked up to him.

"She's a movie star who's traveling incognito."

"Came to Zinnia for a little cosmetic surgery, did she. Nose job and ear trim?"

"Maybe a tummy tuck." For all of his humor, I saw there was something wrong. "What is it?"

He looked back at the hospital as if he expected someone to be watching him. "Let's take a walk." He put his arm around my shoulders and we walked down the ramp and across the gravel parking lot toward the incinerator where the hospital disposed of all types of surgical leftovers and other horrors.

"The initial tests are back on
Lawrence
," he said.

"And?"

"And he had some unusual things in his system."

I forced myself to wait. Doc wasn't a reticent man, but he was a cautious one. He was weighing what he wanted to say with great care.

"
Lawrence
had a thyroid condition, something he'd lived with for a long time, Sarah Booth. I wasn't surprised when the report came back showing Synthroid in his bloodstream." He looked for a long time at the yellow-brick building that housed the incinerator. "There was another drug. A derivative of Coumadin."

"Which is?" I prompted.

"An anticoagulant. Warfarin is a common enough prescription drug for patients with arteriosclerosis. The drug thins the blood so that it can pass more easily through the narrowed arteries."

"Did
Lawrence
have a heart blockage?"

Doc reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out another
Salem
. "None that I found. His heart was as strong as an ox and his arteries were amazingly clean for a man his age. There was some liver damage. Actually, his liver was a mess."

I was confused. "So he died of natural causes?"

He looked at me. "No, Sarah Booth. He bled to death. The combination of the warfarin and the thyroid medication was deadly once he was cut. He must have known what was happening and tried to call for help. The blood rush was too fast. He died before he could make the call."

"So it was an accident?"

Doc signaled me to walk a little farther with him. We made it to a stand of willows beside the river where the hospital had put up a picnic table, for the families of patients, I supposed.

"I've called
Lawrence
's family physician and ordered his medical records. I should have them this afternoon, but"--he looked down at the slow swirl of yellow river--"he wasn't taking warfarin. At least not on doctor's orders."

"Then why?"

"Someone was poisoning him. Coumadin is often used in rat poison. It's easy to get, easy to hide in food. Judging from the condition of his internal organs, I'd say he'd been taking it in small doses for something like a couple of weeks."

It was my turn to stare into the muddy water. "Have you told Coleman yet?" I asked.

Doc shook his head. "I just got the lab reports about ten minutes before you drove up. I'm going in to call him now." He turned and started to walk back.

"Doc? How sophisticated would a person have to be to know about Coumadin?"

He stopped and turned back. "Anybody who's ever talked with an exterminator could know. It's one of the selling points in rodent eradication. A large dose of Coumadin will weaken the blood vessels until there's massive leakage. The rat craves water. In the quest for water, the rat leaves the house. End result is no decaying rats in the house." He shrugged. "The interaction with the thyroid medication would take a little more knowledge. Then again, maybe they didn't have to know that."

I watched him walk back to the hospital, a man carrying the burden of ugly knowledge. I was weighted down with a strange form of grief. I'd just finished one of
Lawrence
's novels. His brilliance was undeniable, and yet unacclaimed in his latter years. He'd shone brightly and then faded, and finally been extinguished in a deliberate act. And now the only person who cared was an old woman.

And me.

And dammit, it wasn't enough.

I heard Sweetie Pie's gentle baying, and I felt a rush of kinship with the dog. She somehow sensed my sadness and was commiserating with me. It was good to have a dog, even if she was dressed as Connie Francis.

I walked back to the car only to discover that Sweetie's sweet and sad singing wasn't meant for my ears. Standing with his front paws on my expensive car was a strange black dog with one thing on his mind.

"Sweetie," I said softly as I got in the car. "You've got to stop this. I can't get a date, and you have every dog in the county hot after you."

"Ooo-ooo-ahh," she cried softly as we drove away and left her latest conquest in the ambulance bay, a victim of unrequited love.

12

Silt-loaded Delta rivers surround and sweep through the old town of
Greenwood
,
Mississippi
. Near the heart of the city, the Yalobusha is joined by the Tallahatchie to form the
Yazoo
.

The rivers bear the names of Indian tribes long removed from their native soil, a reminder that a particular culture is imposed on the land for only a brief time. Of course the damage done by chemicals, fertilizer, and removal of natural foliage may well be permanent.

There's a graciousness to
Greenwood
that has always pleased me, and I drove through the business district, enjoying the old brick buildings. I'd decided against phoning Beverly McGrath. I would take my chances and show up on her doorstep. Of course Millie might have alerted her of my impending visit, but I didn't think so. Millie was eager to help me probe
Lawrence
's death. She was certain that if her aunt had something to tell about
Moon
Lake
, Aunt Bev would be delighted to talk.

I wasn't so sure, but I parked at the curb, left Sweetie Pie snoozing in the front seat, and walked up the sidewalk to the front door. Beverly McGrath's home was a neat clapboard painted white with green shutters. An old cypress swing hung from chains on the front porch, which was free of leaves and debris. Although there were no plants blooming in the yard, the shrubs were neatly trimmed and the earth bordering the sidewalk had been freshly tilled. Aunt Bev was eager for spring.

The neighborhood was older and had the air of a place long settled and loved. When I was a small child my parents had taken me to
Meridian
, to visit the Booth side of the family. Grandpa Lowell Booth was a banker, and the neighborhood had the same air. Solid, safe, a place where families rode the tide of life with grace and dignity.

Beverly McGrath answered the door almost as soon as I knocked, and I could see a good bit of Millie in her blue eyes and bottle blond hair. She was a slender woman who gave the impression of meeting life head-on.

She didn't know me from Adam's housecat, but she gave me a warm smile as she asked how she could help me. Though she spoke with a drawl, it was different from any I'd ever heard. There was a hint of some other influence I couldn't put my finger on.

Her puzzled look told me that Millie hadn't alerted her to my visit. I introduced myself and followed her into a living room stuffed with antiques. "What lovely things," I said, touching the plush brocade of an old rocking chair.

"Some are family things, some I picked up at estate sales. I had a refinishing business when I was younger." She stood, hesitating. "Would you like some coffee and plum pudding?"

I'd resisted fruitcake for two whole mornings. I had a choice between feeling sanctimonious or indulged. "I haven't had plum pudding since I was a child and my Aunt LouLane would bring it with her when she came for Thanksgiving." It was a peculiar memory, because it occurred to me that once LouLane took over the job of mothering me, she never made plum pudding again.

"I didn't know your aunt personally, but I've heard so many nice things about her," Bev said. "Let me get us some refreshments."

I examined the room while I waited, noting the handsome portrait of a man over the mantel. Family patriarch, no doubt. Whoever he was, he was rugged with a sharp eye. I knew that look, and the laugh lines that marked his face. Millie Roberts, nee Wells, came from a strong gene pool.

"What brings you to
Greenwood
, Sarah Booth?" Bev asked as she came into the room bearing a tray laden with coffee, pudding, and some homemade cheese straws. I had to swallow before I could answer.

"Millie was telling me some stories about the past, and she said that you'd spent some time up at
Moon
Lake
."

She was placing the tray on the coffee table. Her toe snagged one of the table legs and she almost stumbled. I grabbed the tray, and she was able to right herself. I couldn't be certain if the dismay was due to her near fall or my reference to
Moon
Lake
. Whichever it was, she recovered quickly.

"So clumsy. I have to wear these big old shoes now. To accommodate my corns and hammertoes and all the other wages of sin." She laughed at the expression on my face.

"Fashion sins, Sarah Booth. Yes, I was up at
Moon
Lake
for a summer. It was 1940, and I can tell you honestly it was the best time of my life. I never took a step unless it was in five-inch heels, and I loved every minute of it. Oh, I was nimble then. And had a figure that made men stop and stare, if I do say so myself. Once George Reeves, you know he played Superman on television years later, anyway he came up on the stage with me and proposed. It was incredible." She sighed.

"For ten short weeks, I lived a dream. Sometimes, when I think about it now, it seems that I must have read it in a book. Every night there was dancing, and lights out on the lake. So many famous people stayed at the resort." Her skin had actually flushed with pleasure. "It isn't possible that I had such excitement and glamour in my life. But I did."

Whatever I'd anticipated, it wasn't this
Hollywood
memory. I'd assumed, after reading
Weevil Dance,
that Bev would be somehow scarred. In the book, four young people witnessed a murder. I was positive something sinister had actually happened at
Moon
Lake
that summer. Something other than gambling, gangsters, and teenage adventure.

"You were there with Lawrence Ambrose and Rosalyn Bell." I watched closely for her reaction to those names.

"I was indeed," she said. "Rosalyn got me the job, actually. She knew I could sing." When the folds of her face finally did sink into sadness, her age was revealed. Until that moment, she'd been able to hold the illusion that she was much younger. "Such a pity about
Lawrence
. He was seventy-six. My age." She reached to pick up the coffeepot and her hand shook. "My husband has gone on, fifteen years ago. I lost one of my boys when he was an infant. And it nearly killed us all when my niece Janice was murdered. Soon it will be my turn to die, and I have to say that with each passing year, the prospect seems more and more attractive."

That wasn't a statement to be easily refuted, but it was one that left me very curious. Bev seemed in good health, and she certainly lived in comfortable surroundings. Why would death seem appealing?

"Did you stay in touch with Lawrence or Ma-- Mrs. Bell?"

Bev finished pouring the coffee and held a cup out to me before she answered. "No." She put cream and sugar in her coffee and sipped it. "I was brought home from
Moon
Lake
before the summer ended. My father came up and got me. It was a humiliating scene." She put the coffee down, and once again her hand shook. "He dragged me out of the casino by my hair." She looked up at me. "I mean that. It was horrible.
Lawrence
tried to intervene, and my father beat him savagely. I was so ashamed ... I didn't answer their letters or talk to them. They came to visit me three times, and it was a difficult journey back then. No one had a car or gas, but they came. And I wouldn't answer the door. My father thought it was because he'd scared me into obeying him. He was so satisfied with himself." The lines around her mouth deepened, and I understood that it didn't matter that sixty years had passed. She was still angry. "I just couldn't face them. That's why I didn't open the door."