Sarah Booth Delaney 13.50 - Shorty Bones (3 page)

“What’s the gain?”

That was the million-dollar question. Topped only by this one: How were Tinkie and I going to find out?

“I say we ambush the stalker and force him to talk.”

It wasn’t the prettiest solution, but it was the quickest. I doubted we could break Lovey or Curtis. They had more to lose. But if Tink and I were correct, Mr. Trench Coat was a hired gun paid to make it seem Lovey was in danger.

“What’s on Lovey’s agenda?” I asked Tinkie.

“According to Facebook, she’s going to be at the Delta Consortium Ball. Oscar will be there, too.”

“And so will you,” I said. “And Cece.” The soiree would be grist for her pages in the newspaper, which would put her in a position to help us as she often did. “I’ll be the outside man. We’re going to nail Mr. Trench Coat and find out who’s behind all of this.”

* * *

The Club, Sunflower County’s fancy golf, tennis, and social mecca, was alight with flickering gas lamps as I slipped along the shrubbery for a vantage point. I was positive Mr. Trench Coat would show and make another “attempt” on Lovey’s life. Why was I so positive? The battery of television trucks. They had enough lights and cameras going to make it seem like the LA launch of a blockbuster film. The Club literally had rolled out a red carpet for this event, and Lovey was taking full advantage of it. She pranced and preened while Curtis stood by, her escort and prince.

Lovey wasn’t the only movie star in attendance. Friends of Morgan Freeman had arrived, as well as some Nashville stars. It was the fete of the year in the Delta.

As more and more people entered The Club, I began to have doubts about my plan. If Lovey had instigated another public attack, the red carpet would have been the place to do it, with cameras rolling. Now, folks were strolling through the double doors into the building. Even Lovey had gone inside. An interior attack would be much more difficult for a slash and run. Maybe I’d miscalculated and sent the troops to a non-battle.

Just as I was about to yield to defeat, I saw movement near the door. Almost on cue, Lovey came out, dug in her purse for a cigarette, and lit up. The camera crews were about to pack it up, but two reporters moved forward to interview Lovey—just as Mr. Trench Coat rushed out of the shrubs. Since I’d snatched his fedora during the pilates encounter he now wore a ski mask.

I blew the coach’s whistle I’d bought just for this purpose, and Coleman loosed the hounds. Literally. Sweetie was primed with the scent from the fedora I’d snatched and Roscoe and Chablis were simply following Sweetie’s lead. The dogs bounded out of the tree line and Mr. Trench Coat never had a chance. Sweetie took him down in a flying leap. Chablis, with her little under-bite, caught hold of his bottom lip and gnawed away. Roscoe cocked a back leg and let fly on the man’s shoe while Sweetie tugged at the top of the ski mask, until she snatched it free.

Coleman, DeWayne and I rushed forward. The man, and he was a handsome character with a thin mustache and oiled hair like a 1940s villain, had the wind knocked out of him. He gasped and fish-flopped on the grass. It wasn’t until Coleman came over with a flashlight that I realized who he was. None other than Curtis Jenkins. He’d dyed his hair, darkened his fair skin to olive, glued on a fake mustache, and otherwise assumed the role of dark and dapper noir villain. For better or worse, the whole take down was captured by the TV crews. Lovey was going to get publicity, but maybe not the kind she’d intended.

Tinkie, Cece, and Oscar came out of the party to witness the final scene as Coleman thrust Curtis into the back of a cruiser and I, once again, found myself as escort to the hospital for Lovey, who had banged her elbow.

“So it was Curtis all along.” Tinkie put her hands on her hips. “I hope Coleman arrests them and puts them behind bars for a decade.

“You can’t arrest me,” Curtis yelled at Coleman, playing to the camera. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Terrorizing your wife opens the door to a number of felony charges,” Coleman said.

“It was an act.” Curtis had regained his wind and was more than ready to talk. “It’s for our new reality TV show,
Living Dangerously, from porn star to society belle
. Lovey is going to be a sensation, and we can use the show to promote the causes of ROVE. Domestic discipline, morals, the whole she-bang.”

“I am not believing this steaming pile of—” Cece decided action was better than words and began snapping photos of Lovey sitting on the steps and Curtis cuffed in the back of a patrol car.

To my complete disgust, they both began to pose for the camera.

“We’re on the schedule for Friday nights at 9 a.m., BLEK cable channel. We’re going to be stars,” Curtis said. “Tell the news crews to follow us to the jail. That’ll be excellent footage. Nothing better than jailhouse scenes. Victims of the justice system.”

Coleman looked at DeWayne, cocked his head in imitation of a red-haired TV detective, and said, “Take him.” He slid on a pair of sunglasses.

I shook my head. “At least you didn’t say, ‘Book him, Dano.’”

“Next time,” he promised as he removed the shades. “I think I could make a passable TV lawman.”

“Can you charge him with anything?” I asked.

“Wasting the taxpayers money, maybe. But doubtful. Just make sure the check you received from them clears.”

“Oh, it’ll clear,” Lovey said as she came up and put her arm around me, mugging for the cameras. Coleman maneuvered her into the back seat beside Curtis.

She never stopped talking. “I think Sarah Booth and Tinkie should be part of the show. You could be my security, you know. Maybe ink a few tats, get a body builder working with you to muscle up your arms. Tinkie’s more refined. She could be the comic relief. And those dogs! They are certainly worthy of their own show. I can see it now,
Canine Commandos
.”

Coleman slapped the top of the cruiser and DeWayne drove the Jensens to jail. They wouldn’t be there long, and they wouldn’t learn anything from the experience, but for the next few hours, the streets of Zinnia would be safe from them.

* * *

“I hear someone’s gonna be on a TV show.”

Jitty had slipped up behind me—again. “That’s a malicious rumor.”

“Hurrump. I heard there was some terrific footage of Sweetie Pie taking down the trench-coated villain at The Club. I also heard that you created quite the scene.”

“Funny how rumors get distorted in the Great Beyond.” I finally put down the knife I was using to slice a beautiful, sweet red pepper. I had all of the ingredients for the omelet chopped. I confronted Jitty, then wished I hadn’t. She wore a leopard print leotard with a short black cape, zebra striped stockings, and a fuzzy collar that looked like it had been shaved from a mangy lion. “Fashion nightmare!” I pointed at her.

“This is my Savage Sarah Booth outfit. I’m gonna make you famous in the world of female wrestlin’.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. You look like a bunch of bad fake fur that got thrown into a blender.”

“You’re a fine one to talk. Look at you, all decked out in Graf’s boxers and t-shirt. That’s enough to turn a man off sex for the rest of his life.”

“Graf doesn’t care about the wrapping, it’s the package beneath.” I gave myself a point for a direct hit.

“Struttin’, some?” she asked. “Just cause you closed the case doesn’t mean you’re right about everythin’.”

“That’s true. But the check cleared the bank this morning and that makes me able to take care of Dahlia House business. In fact, you’ll be pleased to know, I’ve hired a painting company. Come November when the humidity drops, Dahlia House will have a brand new coat of white paint. And I have enough money left to take Graf for a nice vacation.”

“We’re gonna travel?”

I pointed a finger at her chest. “
We
are not going anywhere.
You
are staying here. Graf and I will go somewhere to focus on his recovery.”

“Kill joy,” Jitty said. “Hey, did Lovey get her reality TV show?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes. They’re filming now. She refused to make bond. She wants the first episodes from her jail cell. Coleman is fit to be tied.” I couldn’t suppress the laugh that bubbled up. “He’s really pissed off. He looks like a bear on a rampage in some of the footage.”

“Not a very flatterin’ image of your friend.”

“This show won’t last a season. Coleman should milk it. That’s what I decided to do. In fact, Tinkie and Cece are down at the courthouse now. They’re interviewing them about how Lovey fits into our ‘little southern community.’ Cece could give them some real pointers there, but she has more class than Lovey.”

“So what’s next, Sarah Booth?” For a dead person, Jitty had a real love of future events.

“A ride through the cotton fields on Reveler. Then maybe another ride on Lucifer. Then absolutely a ride at dusk on Miss Scrapiron. The horses need exercise and the humidity is down today. And after that, who knows. Maybe a game of poker with Graf.”

“If you’re playing strip poker, for heaven’s sake put on some decent garments for him to watch you take off.”

“Will do, Jitty, will do.” Sometimes the haint had a good point.

Read on for an excerpt from

a Sarah Booth Delaney mystery
available in May 2014

Follow the latest news from Carolyn Haines at
CarolynHaines.com

Copyright © 2014 by Carolyn Haines

The setting sun casts gold upon the white beach, and the azure curl of surf takes on a lavender cast as it rushes the shore and spreads a mantle of foam. The waves crest inches from my bare feet, a rhythmic tidal pull that comforts me, promising that life continues. The end of an October day is nothing less than stunning on the small barrier island named for French royalty: Dauphin Island, Alabama.

Graf Milieu, my fiancé, is in the beach cottage I’ve rented for a week. My hope is that Graf will find walking in the sand good therapy for his gun-shot leg and the island’s beauty healing to his injured spirit. Graf’s wounds go much deeper than a shattered bone, and they are my fault. He was abducted, shot, and held prisoner without medical care because my private investigative work spilled over into his life.

But that is the past and cannot be changed, no matter how hard I wish it. What I’m planning with this Gulf Coast getaway is to protect the future.

Sweetie Pie, my loyal hound, roots her nose into the back of my armpit, letting me know she sympathizes with my worry. My dog and Pluto, the black cat who lives with us at Dahlia House, my ancestral Mississippi Delta home, are here with me at the beach to aid in Graf’s recuperation. I need all the help I can get.

The wind is chilly off the water, and my butt is damp from sitting in the sand. Pluto struggles toward me, his dainty little paws sinking with each step. With a kitty sigh, he plops into my lap. He has only contempt for the surf and for anyone who admires water—even the dazzling aqua waves of the Gulf of Mexico. Water is necessary for fish, and that’s as far as Pluto is willing to go.

“Where’s Graf?” I ask the critters, hoping he is not far behind them.

They both look back toward the beach cottage. Sweetie’s long, delicate ears droop more than usual. The critters are worried about Graf, too. He’s been in a terrible state since he was shot. The surgery to repair the bone was successful, but the recovery has been painful. The doctors saved his leg, but there is a chance he will always limp. Graf is an actor with a good chance of becoming a movie star. Physical disabilities don’t fit into that equation. He’s fighting hard against the anger, fear, and depression that are normal emotions accompanying such an injury.

And have I mentioned this is all my fault?

The wind whips off the water and sends a salty spray into my face, and for a moment I remember this same beach some twenty-five years earlier, when I vacationed here with my parents. The beach cottages were much plainer, less luxurious, and no oil-drilling rigs dotted the horizon. The sand was pristine then and hadn’t suffered the thousands of gallons of oil from BP’s Deep Water Horizon well that blew and polluted the Gulf. My parents were alive, and I was safe, expecting only the best of a bright future. Life has certainly taken me down a peg or six.

Sweetie’s cold nose against my armpit brings me back from those carefree childhood days. The sun has dropped below the horizon, and the skyline to the east is swiftly changing from peacock-blue to indigo. Time to gird my loins and do battle against Graf’s worries. I shall bring joy back to his life. I shall do it with my bare intention and will.

I stand up suddenly, just in time to catch the image of a woman clad in widow’s weeds on the other side of the sand dune. She is there one moment and gone the next. Sweetie sees her, too, as does Pluto, who puts on his Halloween arch. Like most felines, Pluto disdains unexpected company.

“Who was that?” I asked, even as I loped over the sand in pursuit of the strange figure.

When I rounded the dune, the light was fleeing the sky, but I could make out the feminine silhouette. Her antebellum dress grazed the sand and belled out behind her as the Gulf wind struck the skirt. A black veil floated like the banner of a dark empire. What the hell was going on?

Sweetie passed me and gave chase, but she wasn’t baying like she would if she was on a scent. Pluto, too, for all of his heft and waddling belly, outdistanced me. The phantom floated across the deep sand while I floundered.

“You! Wait up!” I called. No one—not dog, cat, or woman—slowed his pace. I notched it up to a full-fledged run. “Hey! Stop, dammit!”

The stranger slowed and confronted me. Her gown and veil popped in the gusting air, and I was reminded of Deborah Kerr in the
The Innocents,
the film adaptation of “The Turn of the Screw.” Brilliant and terrifying.

The figure seemed to wait for me, and I thought of death. I’d always expected the Grim Reaper to be male, but this black-clad raven of gloom persuaded me otherwise.

“What do you want?” I slowed to a stop in the deep sand two dozen yards from her. She was slender with perfect posture, but her features were obscured by the mourning attire.

She said nothing.

Sweetie and Pluto were frozen in place only a few feet in front of me. They made not a sound.

If this was death come to lurk around the shadows of my life, she would not find hospitality. “You’ve taken too much from me. Get away from here. You have no business with me or the people and animals I love. Be gone!”

“I’ve lost, too,” she said. “More than anyone should.”

In the softness of her voice and the plaintive tone, I realized this was no threat, but someone who knew suffering. “What are you?”

“A friend.”

“A widow from the distant past?” Judging from the dress style, I’d estimate the mid-1800s. It took me a moment, but then I knew. “Jitty?”

She lifted the veil, and I saw sorrow etched in her mocha skin.

“Funeral crepe? That’s the best you could do for a beach costume? No polka-dot bikini? No tawdry flip-flops and big hat? Miss Fashion Plate, where is your style?” I vacillated between relief and annoyance. “You scared the life out of me.”

“I’m a haint. That’s what haints do—we frighten people.”

“But you’re
my
haint, and upsetting me is not allowed. You live by the rules of the Great Beyond, but I live by Delaney rules, and I just wrote that one.”

Her chuckle seemed to hold the fading sunlight for a moment longer.

“Why are you here, Jitty, dressed like a mourner from the eighteen hundreds?” My momentary humor was gone, and worry returned.

“Life is a cycle, Sarah Booth. You know this.”

“I do. I don’t like it, but I know it. I’m in the summer of life, and so is Graf. There’s no cycle crap happening here that needs widow’s weeds.”

“Perhaps not.” She made no promises. It was against the rules of the Great Beyond for her to tell me anything about the future. “But remember the wheel of life turns again and again.”

“If you’re warning me Graf is in some new danger, just spit it out.”

“The French call orgasm ‘the little death.’” Her smile was luminous. And still sad. “At the peak of joy is always the descent into death.”

Too bad there was only sand around. Had there been rocks, I would have picked one up and thrown it at her. “Say it plain.”

She shook her head. “So much history has happened on this island beach. The French settled here and named it Massacre Island because their first discovery was a mound created from human bones. It was a Native American burial site.” She looked out toward the water, and the last lingering bits of peachy light played across her face. “Not a bad place to meet an end.”

“And not a good place either. Who are you mourning here? Coker died in the war, not on a barrier island.”

“Very true. My husband died on a blood-soaked battlefield with Alice’s husband, your great-great-great-grandfather. But there’s history here on Dauphin Island, Sarah Booth. Important history. I suspect you’ll find out soon enough.”

She flickered in and out, as was her wont when she was ready to take a powder.

“Jitty, will Graf be okay?”

But there was only the sound of the surf and the wind whipping my shirt like a tattered flag. Sweetie, Pluto, and I turned toward the three-story cottage. A light bloomed in an upstairs window, a smudge of cheer against the star-spangled night.

It was time to make dinner for Graf. I had a plan to enliven his spirits. A secret plan. And it would work, because I had no other alternative.

* * *

I took the stairs to the second floor. All of the beach cottages were built on pilings, a precaution against a tidal surge, but it also gave us a primo view of the Gulf. I found Graf on the balcony, leaning on the railing and staring out at the wind-whipped water.

I poured glasses of red wine and took them outside. I handed him a glass and then snaked my arm around his waist. He’d lost weight, and he didn’t need to.

“Thank you, Sarah Booth. You’ve been a perfect Florence Nightingale.”

“Florence Nightingale died a single woman. Not going to be my fate, Graf Milieu. Just giving you a heads-up.”

The long drive and then the lengthy walk on the beach had tired him. I traced the lines in his face with gentle fingertips as he spoke. “Once I’m healed, I promise, I’ll make an honest woman of you.” He drew me close and kissed me with lingering tenderness. “I’m getting stronger each day. Walking on the beach and climbing the stairs at the cottage—exactly what the doctor ordered. Thank you for convincing me to come here.”

“I am your Gale Storm with full attention to social and recreational activities, and never forget it.” I tiptoed and kissed his chin. “I’ve booked a tour of the old fort for tomorrow. This place has a fascinating history. Native Americans, French, Spanish, British, Confederacy, and United States. This area has been ruled by a number of different nations.”

“You take the fort tour and I’ll work out on the beach.” Graf sipped his wine and gazed at the crashing surf. The wind ruffled his dark hair. He needed a haircut and a shave. He’d come so close to dying, and he’d fought so bravely to regain the use of his leg. Sometimes, though, depression snuck up on him. Doc Sawyer had warned me to be on the lookout and to keep him distracted.

“Aarrgh! Disobey me and ye’ll walk the gangplank!” I used my finger to poke him in the ribs like a sword.

“Am I going to have to endure pirate parodies for the whole week?” he said teasingly.

“Maybe. I discovered the Gulf waters were swarming with pirates and buccaneers. And the fort here, Fort Gaines, played a vital role in the War Between the States. Also in the two world wars.”

“I never realized you were such a history buff, Sarah Booth. I always viewed you as a girl of the moment. All flash and dazzle and heat. Some very interesting heat.”

My heart surged with hope. Since the gunshot, Graf had avoided intimacy. I’d seen him staring at the nasty wound on his leg and now the glaring scar. He was no longer physical perfection. I didn’t care, but he did. I had to play this cool. “Wars don’t interest me a lot. But pirates—now that’s another story. I love pirate tales. Especially stories involving treasures.”

“Shiver me timbers.” Graf swept me backward, bending me over his arm as he held me and rasped his beard along my cheek and neck.

I tried to push him away, but he was too strong. “What does that even mean? You’ve been watching bad pirate movies. Next thing I know, you’ll have an eye patch.”

“And maybe a parrot.” He drew me to my feet with ease. “Actually, I know a little about sailing. The phrase comes from the ship pounding up and down in rough seas or battle. The concussion would rattle the mast, which was made of wood.”

“I may have to reconsider my engagement.” I held out my left hand with the beautiful diamond. “I’m not sure I want to marry a know-it-all.”

“No danger of that. But I can read. Maybe you should give it a try.”

I punched his arm lightly. “Oh, I brought some books for the beach. I intend to enjoy the surf and an adventure while you complete your physical therapy. I can watch and make sure you’re doing it right.”

Before I’d packed to come to Dauphin Island, I’d met Doc Sawyer, my friend and family doctor, at Millie’s Café for a cup of coffee and a chat. I needed his professional advice on dealing with Graf’s emotional and physical wounds.

“Graf has to find his way, Sarah Booth. It isn’t just the shattered bone and the pain. This injury has changed how he sees himself. It’s shaken loose everything he ever believed about his life and his future.”

“I have to help him.”

Doc took my hand and gave it a hard squeeze. “Be there. Be strong. Supportive. Caring. But don’t make the mistake of pandering to him or trying to make this easier. He’ll resent you, and he’ll hate himself because you pity him. Don’t coddle him and for God’s sake don’t let him act like a tyrant.”

I clung to those words as I inhaled the salty air and gripped the railing of the balcony. “I brought some cards. Care for a few hands of poker?”

“In a little while. I’m happy here, listening to the surf. To be honest, I’m tired. I never thought learning to walk could be so exhausting. How do babies do it?”