Buried Bones (3 page)

The drive was lined with live oaks. Huge and gnarled, they were probably two hundred years old. I pulled into a parking space beside a number of nice autos, and one silver Porsche, probably belonging to Brianna, since it was just like her--fast and high-maintenance.

The chatter of the party spilled out onto the wide gallery where several cats reclined in rocking chairs. Bottles of opened wine and clean glasses were on small tables beside huge brass planters filled with fresh spices. I recognized basil, dill, and rosemary. There were dozens of other plants I knew but couldn't name.

I helped myself to a glass of merlot, stroked a friendly yellow tabby, and listened to the melange of voices within. Brianna's throaty laugh was hard to miss.

Ah, Brianna.

I opened the door and she was the first person I saw. Honeyed blond hair to her shoulders, black sheath, sharp hipbones--hungry. A walk like a caged panther, headed directly at me. For a few seconds I was back in tenth grade, staring at the perfect face that would grace magazine covers around the world.

"Sarah Booth Delaney," she said, coming forward to take my hand. "I never dreamed I'd see you here."

Interpretation--what's someone like you doing among these star-kissed people? Her tone made it clear that I didn't belong.

"
Lawrence
is interested in my book," I said. The lie rolled off my tongue like quicksilver. "He thinks I have talent."

"Amazing. But then, isn't everyone convinced that their pathetic little lives are of interest?" She flicked her hair over her shoulder. "I had no idea you could write."

"It's a skill I acquired in high school, while you were busy on your knees soliciting an A from the--"

Harold Erkwell appeared at my side, a striking figure in a black wool suit that emphasized his salt-and-pepper hair. "Stunning dress, Sarah Booth," he said, hands on my bare shoulders. "Luscious."

"Lush-us," Brianna said, mouthing the word with her collagen-plumped lips. "Another ten pounds, Sarah Booth, and you'll qualify as dumpling cute." She walked away and only Harold's hands on my shoulders saved her.

"I'm going to tear her throat out," I said sweetly.

"Too messy," Harold said, turning me in the opposite direction and giving me a gentle push.

"I didn't know you'd be here," I said, instantly realizing that he belonged here much more than I did. Harold was a huge supporter of the arts--in literature, visual, music, and drama. It was perfectly logical that he'd be among
Lawrence
's friends.

"I'm here to keep an eye on
Lawrence
. He's up to something." Worry furrowed his brow.

"What's going on?" I asked.

Before he could reply he was captured by Lillian Sparks and her campaign to outfit the first New Year's baby born in
Sunflower
County
with a year's supply of cotton diapers. Homegrown cotton, of course.

The party swept over me and I found myself talking to a
New York
literary agent and a handsome actor who was hoping for his
Hollywood
break. Both were busy looking beyond me for a better connection. We were joined by a short, posturing man who enjoyed name-dropping and commandeering conversations. I thought at first his name was Dean, realizing only later that it was his title, which he'd soldered onto his identity by ceaseless repetition.

"Of course Joyce was never a social man,"
Dean
Joseph Grace droned. "I once had lunch with William Burroughs, and it occurred to me that there were similarities between Joyce and Burroughs that no one had ever before connected. I thought instantly what a wonderful thesis that would make for some young scholar at the university. That's the problem these days, our students have no originality. No spark of creativity."

There was no doubt that he referred to the
University
of
Mississippi
, or Ole Miss, the Sacred Hunting Ground for Daddy's Girls to find suitable mates. I could have informed him that there was plenty of originality among the students when it came to snaring the suitable mate.

"You've read both Burroughs and Joyce?" His narrow brown gaze pinned me as a possible troglodyte.

"Who hasn't?" I replied gamely. To my horror the agent and actor fled, obviously better at self-preservation than I was.

Rescue arrived not a moment too soon. Madame Rosalyn Bell, former prima ballerina and Nazi dance mistress, took my arm. "Pull your shoulders back. It makes your breasts perky," she said. "There's someone I want you to meet."

I didn't want to imagine who that might be. So far the guest list, with the exception of Harold and Mrs. Sparks, seemed pretentious and fed on malice.

"Come along, dear. He's outside, smoking. Cultural thing, you know."

Before I could protest, her tiny fingers dug deeply into my arm and she pushed me out into the cold night. "Are you really a private investigator?" she said as she pulled me to face her, just as she'd done in dance class twenty years before.

"I've concluded one--"

"No prevarication, Sarah Booth. Either you are or aren't."

"I am." One thing about Madame--she didn't allow for waffling.

"You have a sharp eye for people. You must, if you're in the PI business. What do you make of Brianna's desire to write
Lawrence
's life story?"

Brianna had also been one of Rosalyn's students. She'd been a beautiful dancer with a superior attitude and the habit of never letting Madame forget that she was her employee. I had a vivid memory of the petite dance mistress lifting her hand to slap Brianna's face for an especially cruel remark she'd made to one of the chubbier girls in the dance class. But something had restrained Madame. She'd lowered her hand and walked away.

"I never knew Brianna had an interest in writing. She certainly never did in high school."

"You're hedging again, Sarah Booth. An unattractive habit I would have thought you'd outgrow. Brianna isn't interested in writing, she's interested in recapturing the limelight. Any. Way. She. Can."

The emphasis was clear, and the hair on the back of my neck quivered. Rosalyn was so tense she was almost vibrating. "Writing a book doesn't seem all that glamorous," I said, hoping to calm her.

"
Lawrence
has the goods on half the well-known writers alive today. During his
Paris
years, he knew everyone who was anyone. There are some secrets better left in the past, Sarah Booth. Some damaging secrets. Brianna is hunting for those secrets.
Lawrence
won't believe it, but she's been snooping in his house, plundering through his things. I've caught her twice. If she finds-- The past is never dead.
Lawrence
doesn't realize how damaging, or how dangerous, it can be."

I remembered
Lawrence
's broad hints. Brianna would enjoy nothing better than digging up dirt on others and watching them twist in the wind. Still, I had doubts that Brianna would have the discipline to finish a book even if she started. Writing required solitude, and Brianna never liked her own company--for obvious reasons. "I wouldn't worry too much. I doubt Brianna can write anything, much less a book. Even if by some miracle she finished, it probably won't get published." That conclusion gave me a jolt of satisfaction.

"Layton Rathbone will buy his daughter a publishing company if that's what it takes," Rosalyn insisted. "Or at least that's what
Lawrence
believes. He thinks he's going to use Brianna, but there's one small problem. No one uses a Rathbone and gets away with it."

The sound of deep, sensual laughter was a perfect contrast to the chill of Rosalyn's words. We both turned our heads. I saw him standing at the edge of the light, a striking silhouette against the backyard torches--a tall man, slender, in an Italian-cut suit that emphasized his long torso and legs, lean hips, and broad shoulders. When he turned, I stopped dead in my tracks. Light from a dozen blazing lanterns caught in his golden blond curls, intensifying his hazel eyes.

Rosalyn moved toward him, leading me beside her. "Willem Arquillo, this is the woman I promised to introduce you to. Sarah Booth Delaney,
Senor
Arquillo."

He came toward me with two long strides, his hand capturing mine. He lifted it, then turned it over and bent back my fingers lightly to expose the palm. Very deliberately he kissed it. In the cold Delta night, his lips were very, very warm.

"You're even more beautiful than Rosalyn told me," he said. He continued to hold my hand as he turned to Madame Bell. "Exquisite," he whispered.

"I saw your paintings in
Memphis
," I said, beginning to see real value in cultivating artsy-fartsy acquaintances. Aside from the fact that he was a magnificent painter, combining primitive images with controversial politics, he was gorgeous.
Lawrence
had said an artist would be at dinner, but he hadn't said which artist. "What brings you to Zinnia?" I'd heard gossip, from Cece, naturally, that he was working to establish a trade partnership between
Mississippi
and
Nicaragua
-- both
Third World
countries, as he so aptly put it. But that type of negotiation would take place in
Jackson
, the state capital, not little ol' Zinnia.

"Business
and
pleasure," he said smoothly. "Lawrence and I have some unfinished business. We've been friends for a long time."

Willem's melodious voice made my spine tingle. "I understand
Lawrence
collects art. Does he have some of your paintings?"

His gaze was sharp, but his voice was as warm as a caress. "Probably more than he realizes. But I'm bored talking about myself. I hear you're a writer. Are you helping
Lawrence
with his big project, his grand revelation of his life? He tells me he's going to zoom to the top of the best-seller list. I wonder how many bones will crack beneath his shoes."

The back door opened before I could ask him what he meant or answer his pointed question. Brianna stepped into the night. "So this is where you've stashed Willem," she said. "I should have known if there was a single man, Sarah Booth would have him out in the dark."

Before I could say a word, Willem cut in. "You flatter me, Brianna, but I came outside to have a cigarette. Now I must excuse myself.
Lawrence
promised to give me a brief education on the Southern baroque era."

He gave my hand a suggestive squeeze before he let it go. Moving with complete poise, he took Madame's arm. Brianna and I were left in the yard that was suddenly much colder.

"Too bad he's interested in Southern baroque," I said to Brianna. "If he liked Southern slut, he might want to talk to you." I headed for the back door, knowing that the battle lines were now clear. We'd each drawn blood.

Just as I reached for the door, it opened and a tall, slender man stepped into the night. He was backlit, his features hidden. "Sarah Booth," he said warmly, taking my hand and patting it. "How nice to see you. It's been years. I'm looking for my daughter."

He turned so that the light fell across his face. "Mr. Rathbone," I said in surprise. "I didn't know you were in Zinnia." Layton Rathbone and his wife seldom came home. He had extensive business holdings in
Europe
. Word around town was that Pamela Rathbone had gotten too good for her roots and preferred the rarefied air of "The Continent." It was beyond me how a man as nice as
Layton
had married Pamela and spawned Brianna.

"Just a pop-in visit to see my little girl." He patted my hand and dropped it. "Publishing is a new game for her. It always concerns a father when his baby takes on a new challenge, especially if you have a daughter like Brianna."

Layton Rathbone was a business genius, turning soybeans into gold, but when it came to his daughter, he was putty--to be molded by her every whim. Still, it wasn't up to me to point out that the idea of Brianna writing anything was laughable.

"My girl's out here somewhere, I believe," he said, looking beyond me into the shadows.

"Ummm," I said. "It was good to see you." And I darted into the house. I found a wall and eased around the cottage, scoping out the other attendees while admiring
Lawrence
's home--a place filled with art and objects of fancy. Every square inch of wall was hung with a sketch or painting. Books were everywhere, jammed in glass cases that also held sculptures and figurines, a mixture of fine and gaudy. A waiter took my empty wineglass and handed me a full one. I sampled a tray of hors d'oeuvres, delighting in the unexpected surprise of steamed collards stuffed with ground pork and pine nuts. Excellent.