Rock-a-Bye Bones

 

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About the Author

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For Michelle and Bryan Ladner, and the new and wonderful addition to your family

 

Acknowledgments

A book is a wild blend of facts, imagination, snippets of the past, conversations, dreams, and nearly forgotten moments in time. Many thanks to my friends who have been a part of this strange process. And to the professionals who play such an important role. Kelley Ragland, Elizabeth Lacks, Marian Young. Thank you.

 

1

Thanksgiving is no time to leave a desperate woman alone in a haunted house with a knife and a giant squash. Pumpkin spatter covers every horizontal and vertical surface in the spacious kitchen. I heft the five-inch blade and advance on the nine-pound vegetable that defies me. I intend to magically turn the gourd into homemade pumpkin pie, but so far, things are not working out the way I envisioned.

“I'm a lot better with jack-o-lanterns than pies,” I say to my red tick hound, Sweetie Pie Delaney, who wisely sleeps
under
the kitchen table, an area still free of pumpkin guts. She lifts her bloodshot eyes to send a sympathetic stare, and then dozes off. She knows that if I make a mess of the pies, she'll have a treat. Sweetie is not a finicky hound, but it happens that pumpkin pie is one of her favorites. And she doesn't care if it's baked into a flakey homemade crust or tumbled out of a bowl.

A shutter bangs against the side of the house, reminding me to call a repairman to make a few necessary improvements before Old Man Winter comes to Zinnia, Mississippi, for an extended visit. Outside Dahlia House, my family plantation in the heart of Sunflower County, the wind is sweeping across the barren cotton fields. The harvest is in, and winter is coming. But in the warm, cinnamon-smelling kitchen, I am looking forward to a festive Thanksgiving dinner with my best friends in the world. I am playing host—a new role for me.

I turn to the recipe and study it harder. Always the overachiever, I have
two
large pumpkins. Part of one is baking in the oven, but I have another big one on my cutting board. I have been assured by Millie Roberts, owner of Zinnia's most popular café, that pumpkin puree from scratch is far superior to canned. I'm beginning to have second thoughts. What sounded so easy coming from Millie's mouth has turned into an orange orgy in my kitchen.

Putting the knife down, I decide on a break. Cinnamon and maple-flavored coffee in hand, I step out on the front porch. Sweetie and my black cat, Pluto, are at my side. White wicker rockers offer a comfortable seat, but I settle on the steps. Here I can look straight down the driveway. The sycamore trees that line the shell drive are leafless. The white skinlike bark, peeling in places, always makes me sad. November, like the gloaming, can be a melancholy time. Endings. I'm not good with endings.

Soon, though, the barren fields that stretch to the horizon will sprout new growth. Spring will return. Another cycle. This year, I have determined to make the holidays joyful.

I've invited all of my Zinnia friends to have Thanksgiving dinner at Dahlia House. Normally I enjoy the holidays at Tinkie's or Harold's—the two designated party givers in the Delta. This year, I want my home to be the party location. November marks the anniversary of my return to Sunflower County. When I'd come home two years ago, tail between my legs, I was destitute. Dahlia House was on the tax assessor's list to be auctioned off for back taxes. Since my return, I'd opened a successful private eye business, Delaney Detective Agency, hooked up with the best partner on the planet, Tinkie Bellcase Richmond, and acquired three horses, a dog, a feline ruler of the universe, and one very badass haint named Jitty. All in all, a very busy time.

The first months I'd been home, Dahlia House had felt cold and empty. My parents had died in a car accident when I was only twelve. My aunt Loulane, my father's sister, had raised me until I went to college. Not so long ago, she passed away, too. While I was adjusting to the failure of my acting career in New York, my first breakup with Graf Milieu, and the return home in bitter Broadway theatrical defeat, I'd also found Jitty, my resident ghost.

Jitty is part comforting parent, a big dollop of Hell Hound, and an equal measure of butt-kicker and provoker. She links me to the long history of Dahlia House, the Delaney family, and a system of morals and values instilled in me at an early age. From my father, I learned about justice and fair play. From my mother, I was gifted with a firm resolve to never be a victim, never accept defeat, and never, ever betray a friend.

When my parents were alive, Dahlia House was a holiday destination. My mother loved parties and she loved to dance. She had luncheons, coffees, drink gatherings, formal dinners, game get-togethers—whatever sounded fun.

My favorite memories, though, centered around Thanksgiving and the preparation of the traditional foods that define the holiday. My mother was an exceptional cook, though never a slave to the kitchen. Roasted turkey, dressing, fresh green beans, Brussels sprouts and chestnuts, ambrosia, and pumpkin pies were always on the menu. Even as a little girl, I was allowed to help with the food preparation. I can still remember my mother watching closely as I chopped celery for the dressing.

“Chop it fine, Sarah Booth. No big chunks.” And she would lean over me, her hair tickling my face and filled with the scent of Opium, so light and yet enticing. No matter how I try, I'll never be able to duplicate those holidays when I was wrapped so tightly in the protection and love of my parents. This Thanksgiving I want to bring Dahlia House to life the way my mother did.

Only one small problem. My mother was a born chef and party giver. I, on the other hand, am a much better guest at someone else's table. Thinking of tables and guests, I slipped back inside the house. I had to get back in the kitchen and accomplish something other than mayhem. When I returned to the scene of my defeat, I inhaled deeply. At least my kitchen smelled like Thanksgiving.

“Good lard almighty!” A whiff of gardenias came with the outraged voice. Jitty has arrived. I close my eyes and bite my lip. Though I wouldn't trade her for anything, she is a bane. If she says one word about dying ovaries, I am going to chase her around the kitchen with my knife. Of course she's dead already so it's an empty threat, but it would still give me great satisfaction.

“What have you done to the kitchen?” Jitty asked. She sashayed into the room in the most outrageous outfit I've yet to see her wear—a black and white nun's habit.

“I'm making dessert, and while the kitchen may be a mess, it isn't nearly as bad as that getup you're wearing. You are officially cut off from any more Whoopi Goldberg movies.” My threats were empty and we both knew it. “Get out of the house right this minute. If you draw a lightning strike down on you by pretending to be a nun, I don't want any part of it.” I edged away from her. “What order do you belong to, the Holy Tormenters, or maybe Our Lady of the Aggravators? No religious leader in her right mind would let you into a convent.”

“I'm not just any nun, I'm Mother Superior, and you'd best be listenin' to my advice, Missy.” She pointed at the chunks of pumpkin and the blob of guts and seeds. “That's supposed to turn out to be a pie?”

“Pumpkin pies.” I am a bit hesitant to admit that a pie was my goal. What I have is a pan full of rubbery and disgusting baked pumpkin chunks. The slimy guts are spilling off the table and half out the garbage can. Add to that the flour dusting the floor and the eggs I meant to whip but accidentally dropped, and I have to admit, I've made a remarkable mess.

“You did all of this to make a pumpkin pie?” She honestly can't take it all in. “Let me know if you ever decide to make cream puffs and I'll take out extra insurance on Dahlia House.”

“That's so funny I forgot to laugh.” I should be used to Jitty's acerbic commentary, but she can still get me riled, which is great fun for her.

“Have you ever heard of canned pumpkin?” Jitty is appalled. “Seriously, Sarah Booth, this looks like the jolly orange pumpkin exploded in here. How about 911, call Millie's Café and beg her to come to the rescue.”

“What's with the nun getup?” I've learned to keep the focus on Jitty and off me.

“I'm doing my part to get that difficult Delaney womb filled up with an heir to Dahlia House.”

“And you intend to accomplish that by dressing as a nun?” Not even I could follow that logic.

“I'm the ultimate mother,” she said. “Now listen up. I'm about to lay some wisdom on you.”

I had to think fast to avoid another lecture on how my biological clock was ticking and how my ovaries were turning black and shriveling with each passing second, not to mention the Delaney penchant for tilted wombs and bad judgment in the romance department. To Jitty, an heir was the only thing that mattered. Since I'd recently broken off my engagement, she was doubling down on dire fallopian predictions. “It would be a lot more helpful if you would roll out the pie crust. So far, I haven't had a lot of luck with that.”

She took a look in the bowl where I'd mixed flour, butter, a little salt, and some cold water—just as the recipe called for. Instead of workable dough that could be rolled thin and placed in the bottom of a pie pan, I'd achieved a glutinous mass of … paste. And it kept making noises, as if it were alive, possibly suffering from a bad case of gas.

“Baby girl, that lump of glue is beyond my help. Divine intervention can't save that mess. Fact is, I'd burn it before it turns into a golem. I think it may have a heartbeat.” She backed away from it.

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” I picked up the bowl of lumpy, wet dough and realized, for once, Jitty was not exaggerating. A little bubble of air escaped the goop, followed by a burp. That was enough for me. I used the big wooden spoon and scraped it into the trash. If it came to life, it could do so at the end of the driveway, not in the kitchen.

“Maybe I should call a priest to give it the last rites.” Jitty was so pleased with her wit she could hardly contain her glee.