Buried Bones (2 page)

"Open up, dah-ling, I'm here on official monkey business."

I did as he ordered and found myself face-to-face with an older man who'd escaped most of the trappings of age--he was spry. He made a courtly bow, sweeping low to the floor.

"Let me introduce myself. Lawrence Ambrose, a very dear friend of your parents. Your mother in particular. I adored her. She was every inch a real lady."

I was stunned. All of my life I'd heard about Lawrence Ambrose, the Mississippian who'd taken the Parisian world of letters by storm. He was also an artist and playwright and a host of other things. I'd known that Ambrose lived in Zinnia, a recluse on the
Caldwells
' large estate, but I'd never anticipated meeting him in the flesh.

"Please, come in," I managed.

"I do believe there's a bit of the monkey in you, my dear,"
Lawrence
said, offering his arm to me. "There's not a Zodiac sign for the monkey, but there should be. Somewhere between the scorpion and the goat, don't you think? What sign are you?"

Leaning only slightly on his cane, he escorted me inside.

In the parlor, Lawrence Ambrose settled into the club chair beside the fire and pointed at my Christmas decorations with his cane. "Lovely, dahling. Very
SoHo
, fifties. Andy Warhol would have absolutely coveted such a creation. That was before he became a caricature of himself, you know. At one point . . ." He lowered the cane and I saw his hand tremble before it closed tightly over the horse's head. He was too pale. "It's a sign of age when the past seems to dominate one's conversation. Forgive me."

He seemed so genuinely taken aback that I had to think of a change of subject. Food was always good. "Would you care for some coffee? And fruitcake?" If he ate it, I might be able to fit into my pants tomorrow.

"Fruitcake?" he asked, two shaggy white eyebrows arching. "None of that hideous store-bought gomm that they pass off as fruitcake?"

Though he was still pale, he'd bounced back. "No," I assured him, even more impressed that he knew the difference. "Homemade. From a secret family recipe."

"Dahling, there's nothing better in the world than a secret family recipe. Except for an afternoon in
Italy
with a skilled lover."

His reply stopped me dead in my tracks.

"You'd be surprised which Zinnians have indulged in such decadence," he added, eyes a wicked blue. "It's the most interesting thing, how something so wonderful at the time can end up being the source of such anxiety. I've lately become quite the expert on secret anxieties. And secrets in general." His smile was pure delight.

"I'll get us some. Coffee and fruitcake," I said, excusing myself and heading into the kitchen. Lawrence Ambrose intrigued me, but he'd also caught me completely off guard. What in the world was the writer doing at my house now? My mother had adored him.

She had collected signed copies of all of his work. She even had a photograph of him as Rita Hayworth's escort at the Academy Awards. Mother had loved his writing.

Years back, there had been rumors about his parties--bacchanalia with Maypole dances, original plays acted out in elaborate costumes on the lawn. There was even a story that he'd hung and burned an effigy of one of
Mississippi
's more infamous governors, Cliff Finch, and ended up in a fistfight with Zinnia's volunteer fire marshal. That was before he'd become something of a recluse. But he didn't seem at all reclusive. Just another example of how rumors spread in a small town.

I waited for the coffee to perk, pondering why he'd come visiting me. When the tray was prepared, I hurried back to the parlor with it.
Lawrence
accepted his coffee and cake with the ease of a man comfortable in a parlor.

"No doubt you're wondering why I'm here. It's a rather long story, and boring, as most long stories are. And naturally, it involves money. And secrets."

He was a verbal tease, hinting and dangling little tidbits. But he did it with such style and humor that I found myself intrigued rather than annoyed. "I love secrets," I said. "Generally they pay well."

"Ah-ha, I knew you were part monkey. Clever little thing. Facts first and then secrets. My last books were financial failures. No publisher will touch my work. They say my numbers are down and no one remembers or cares about what I
used
to be."

He took a bite of cake. "Heavenly, Sarah Booth. Who would have thought a pigtailed hellion would grow up to bake such divine fruitcake." Hardly taking a breath he continued. "I've now decided to publish my memoirs. Would you have a bit of brandy to liven up the coffee? Caffeine is bad for your liver, my child. Brandy counteracts the acids."

At first I'd thought
Lawrence
had reached the age where rambling and conversational rabbit trails were unavoidable, but his blue eyes belied such a judgment. He was in expert control of his faculties
and
the conversation. "Certainly," I said as I found the proper decanter and splashed a good dollop into his cup.

"Finding new talent is one of my greatest pleasures. I'm having a small gathering at my home Christmas Eve," he said. "There'll be some writers, publishers, a few movie people, an artist, and the usual suspects in the
Sunflower
County
literati. Since you're writing a book, I thought you might enjoy the gathering."

"But I'm not--" I stopped my confession. The lie that I was writing a book had launched my career as a private investigator. As my mother once told me, sometimes it's too late for the truth. Besides, the party sounded interesting, especially based on
Lawrence
's past history of fetes. "It sounds lovely," I said.

"I'm reintroducing my biographer to her native soil. I believe you know her. Brianna Rathbone."
Lawrence
stamped his cane on the floor. "A dazzling young woman. She's been living in
New York
, but has now returned to the Delta to work on my book. My memoirs. This will signal a new era for me. Brianna is an international celebrity, yet Southern. I think the combination of my story and her celebrity status will push this book right to the top of the best-seller list. You remember her, don't you?"

The thwack of the cane combined with Brianna's name was like tiny little jolts of electricity in the reptilian lobe of my brain. I had the strongest urge to coil and strike.

"Yes." The word was a croak. My reptilian lobe was still in control. I remembered her perfectly. "I didn't realize Brianna had an interest in writing," I said, floundering for something to say. "She's a model. A jet-setter. One of the beautiful people."

"Brianna, as a
former
model and jet-setter, is the perfect person to add that zest to my story."
Lawrence
arched his eyebrows. "Don't you agree?"

"Can Brianna write?" I asked before I could stop myself. A better question would have been if she could read.

"I'm not in need of eloquence,"
Lawrence
said. He sat taller in his chair. "The truth of the matter is that my light has faded. What I need is a biographer who can regenerate that spark. Like it or not, the world lusts for celebrity, not art. Miss Rathbone has been on the cover of
Vogue.
She's dating Gustav Brecht, the publishing magnate. She has the elan to capture the public's attention. She has a reputation."

No doubt about the reputation part. She'd slept with half the men in
New York
. And now she was dating a publisher. Was that a good thing? Brianna had always reminded me of a black widow. Mate-eater. Or at least maimer. I could see the benefits of a biographer who was in bed with the publisher, but what would happen when she gnawed off his leg? But I held my tongue.

"Can I expect you for dinner?"
Lawrence
asked.

As fascinating as the evening sounded, I'd rather spend an hour in a snake pit than sit through dinner with Brianna Rathbone. I was on the verge of declining when he pulled another directional shift in the conversation.

"I have two reasons for having this dinner, Sarah Booth. I found my favorite cat, Rasmus, dead yesterday. He was twenty years old. He
must
have died of old
age.
He loved my entertainments and would frequently perform kitty yoga on top of the guests. My only regret is that I didn't have one sooner, for him, but I'm having one now in his honor."

There was a hint of sudden desperation and sadness in
Lawrence
's voice that tugged on my heartstrings. He shivered then, even though he still wore his coat and the fire was hot. I had the sinking feeling that he was masterfully playing me, but I didn't have the heart to resist him. I got up and added another log to the fire. "What's the other reason?" I asked.

His eyebrows rose and the glitter in his blue eyes was both mischief and excitement. "Secrets. The second reason is that everyone there will have a secret. And I know them all."

"What time is dinner?" I asked, caught up in his spirit of devilment. Secrets were, indeed, good fun.

"I told everyone six, which means they'll arrive at seven because they all want to make a grand entrance. Seven would be lovely. Bring your opera glasses, dahling, the peacocks will be parading." The eyebrows rose slowly and held. "I intend to make them stampede. It will be great fun."

"It sounds wonderful, but why are you inviting me?" I had to ask.

"To
bear
witness,
darling.
You're
the
perfect choice--a writer and a detective."

2

"Leave it up," Jitty said, standing behind me as I poked a jeweled hair comb into my unruly mop of brown curls. I liked the casual elegance of the upswept do, but I was afraid it wouldn't withstand the rigors of the evening.

"It feels . . . unsecured."

"You're worried about hair? Take a look at your chest."

Jitty was opposed to the red-glitter cocktail dress that I'd bought at a tony little shop in
Memphis
during a shopping spree with Cece. True to her word, Cece Dee Falcon had provided entertainment during the trip--a nonstop babble of gossip and factoids she ferreted out and catalogued in her newspaper work. She also tossed out expert fashion advice. But trying on clothes with Cece was an experience I hadn't bargained for. More often than not, I forgot that Cece had once been a man. Long gone was the lanky, twitchy high school boy Cecil Falcon. In his place, an elegant, sexy, and very feminine woman emerged thanks to a talented team of Swedish surgeons. A cramped dressing room was an interesting place to play before-and-after.

Even as I fastened a diamond locket around my throat, I reassessed my image. Cece, with her lean hips and angular collarbone, could wear anything. But she was truly expert in dressing others, too. My dress was Parisian cool. Low-cut in front and daringly backless. The style did a lot to emphasize my decolletage, more defined since my fruitcake binge. Play your assets, my mother always said. My makeup was subtle, emphasizing the green of my eyes.

Jitty stepped back from me. "Honey, those fruitcakes are gangin' up on your waistline and looks like they're preparin' to claim squatter's rights."

Where I'd discarded binding bras and underwire, she was girded, girdled, heart-crossed, and granny-panted against even the tiniest jiggle. God forbid that she might be able to draw a deep breath. A little oxygen to her brain might allow her to think for herself.

"There's nothing in the detective handbooks that says I can't be plump," I offered, anticipating the explosion.

"Girl, you better pull yourself together! You talkin' like an old maid."

"I am an old maid," I reminded her. "But I have a good personality and I can make my own clothes," I added, to ward off the sting.

"Just keep makin' jokes," Jitty said. "Life has a way of followin' after the words we cast out in front of us."

Her philosophical statement caused a small cavalry of goose bumps to gallop up my arm. "Don't wait up," I said, picking up my purse and keys. I took off down the stairs and into the night.

It was perfect weather for a Christmas Eve bash. The barren cotton fields were coated in frost, a tundra of silvery white that reached into the dark blue and star-spangled Delta sky. Though the night was clear, snow was predicted. I remembered a long-ago white Christmas. Dahlia House, decorated like a storybook home, had seemed to be a place where only happiness could live. I was four.

Still, a blanket of cold, white stuff would soften even the heart of a cynic. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. I kept the mantra going so that I wouldn't think about what was missing from the evening--a date--as I drove to the party.

Lawrence Ambrose lived in a cottage on
Magnolia Place
, one of the few estates that still functioned as a producing cotton plantation. The Vardaman Caldwells owned the property, but they traveled extensively and were often out of the country. Set back from the main house about half a mile, the spacious guest cottage was a perfect location for a writer, elegant and secluded-- far enough from the main road not to draw attention should Lawrence decided to engage in one of his famous parties.