Smarty Bones (23 page)

The courthouse square and many of the downtown streets were shaded by large oaks. When the Delta land had originally been cleared, a few trees were left in areas where residential centers were planned. In other instances, trees had been planted after the town was formed. Good planning. The lacy oaks dropped the temperature at least ten degrees.

A soft breeze lifted my hair off my neck as we sallied forth. Coleman had something to say, but grilling him wouldn’t make him give it up any faster, so we walked.

When he did speak, it wasn’t what I expected. “This morning I caught the first whiff of fall in the air.”

“You must have been up at five a.m., before the sun heated everything up.” I couldn’t read his profile. What the hell? I didn’t need a weather report.

“I was up early. I met Olive for a jog.”

“Daniel leapfrogging lions! Where?”

“At The Gardens. I wanted to tell you myself. Before Olive did.”

“Oh, no. This is not happening.” I grabbed his elbow and jerked him around to face me. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’re dating that bitch.”

“I’m not. We jogged. She likes to stay fit.”

“She’s so thin if she turns sideways she won’t cast a shadow.” My overwrought brain refused to process the information in any useful way.

“Don’t be cruel, Sarah Booth. She has a high metabolism.”

“I don’t know what to say. She’s a suspect in a murder case. Have you lost what little gumption you had?” I realized we were standing on a corner on Main Street in Zinnia. Vehicles whizzed by, and several pedestrians eased around us, looking back with concern.

I tried to compose myself. It wouldn’t do a lick of good to have a come-apart on Main Street.

“We went for a jog, but I know how gossip flies around Sunflower County and I knew it would get back to you.”

“I’m not your mother.” Fury washed over me in waves. “I should think you’d be more concerned about what DeWayne and the voters think about the fact you’re dating your own murder suspect.”

“We were—”

“Jogging, I know. A euphemism for dating for the S and M set.”

“Ouch!” Coleman’s grin said it all. “Are you mad because we’re dating or because we’re exercising together?”

“Mother Teresa eating a Fudgsicle! I don’t care what you do, it’s doing it with Olive Twist. She’s a suspect. You’ve made a few boneheaded mistakes in your life, but this is too much. You’re displaying terrible judgment, Coleman. There’ll be a backlash. People in Sunflower County will despise Olive for what she’s trying to do. That contempt will rub off on you.”

To my surprise, he didn’t defend his choice. He didn’t say a damn word. Which wasn’t like Coleman.

“What are you up to?” I tried to pin him down.

“I won’t discuss this, Sarah Booth, but I didn’t want to sandbag you. Now you know.” He pivoted and started back to the courthouse. Our little walk was nothing but a chance for him to confess his insanity. He didn’t want to do it in the courthouse in case I broke bad.

I trotted to catch up to him. “I can’t tell you who or what to date.” I spoke with a calm I didn’t feel. “Olive isn’t a very nice person.”

“She says the same about you.”

I wanted to beat his chest with my fists. “Make fun of me if you want to, but I’m not trying to date a possible killer. The voters might not understand.”

“I’m not dating her. I went for a jog.”

“It doesn’t matter what you call it or how you rationalize it. It looks bad. What if you have to arrest her for murder?”

“Then I will.” He reached for my hand, but I pulled back. “You have to trust me on this, Sarah Booth.”

“No, I don’t.” I did an about-face and left him standing on the Main Street sidewalk as I hurried back to my car and the fifteen-minute drive to the safety of Dahlia House.

12

Dahlia House was silent as the grave. For about sixty seconds. I’d just made it in the door when I heard frantic scratching coming from the dining room. Sweetie’s excited bark followed, then the sound of a solid hound body pummeling the door. The
locked
dining room door.

I never locked interior rooms, and neither did Graf. Like in many old houses, each door was fitted with a lock. The brass keys were left in the locks. Could the door have locked accidentally?

If so, why didn’t Sweetie and Pluto use the swinging door into the kitchen and then the doggy exit to the outside? It didn’t make sense. I hurried to unlock the door before my critters clawed and buffeted it down.

Pluto flew at me from the darkened dining room and nearly scared ten years off my life. If Ole Miss needed a flying tackle, I had just the cat for them.

Sweetie Pie followed right behind. She rushed to my feet and sat, tail thumping a calypso rhythm on the hardwood floor, demanding my attention. The critters were teaming up on me, but I still didn’t understand the locked door in the dining room.

“Where’s Graf?” I asked.

Sweetie’s reply was a long, sad howl. Pluto galloped to the front door and clawed at it. He really wanted out, but Sweetie lingered at my side.

“Sweetie, you’ve had an ice cream
and
a swim today. Why are you acting so needy?”

She circled frantically, clawed the door, and barked. Pluto, too, gave a great impression of a cat crazed to get outside. Watching their frenzied antics, I wondered if Graf had locked them in the dining room and then blocked the doggy door. But why? I’d check it in a moment, but first I released hound and kitty into the front yard. They hurtled down the steps in tandem and tore around the house toward the barn.

“Man, those two are wound up.” As I closed the door, I sensed someone was behind me. Thoughts flapped through my head as I eased around. Neither Sweetie nor Pluto would abandon me to danger. And surely they’d know if a stranger was in the house. It had to be—

“Your man is on the loose and you’re worried about that sheriff. You’d better keep tabs on the handsome Graf Milieu, or you’re gonna lose him.”

I stared into the chocolate orbs of a mocha and beautiful Jessica Rabbit. Her arched eyebrows were fascinating, and her red hair, à la Veronica Lake, spectacular. But who cared about such things when confronted with an hourglass figure. “Jitty?” I could barely get her name out. “Where did you get that body?”

“As usual, your focus is on the wrong thing. It’s not my body you should be thinkin’ about. It’s innocence. And how the wrong people can be accused of a crime. Maybe even a crime that was never committed. You should give Eddie Valiant a call. Take a page from him on runnin’ an investigation. Toontown hides no secrets from Eddie. If the same could be said of you and Zinnia, you’d crack this case.”

I had no clue what she was rambling about. Now I fully understood why Jessica Rabbit had been voted the sexiest cartoon character of all time, and Jitty knew how to play her. She took long, hip-swinging steps in my direction. For a ghost who disdained her body, she worked every inch of it to get the maximum attention. The only thing I could think to say was, “Who framed Roger Rabbit?”

“Framed is the operative word, Sarah Booth.” She flicked her cigarette and the ashes speckled the top of my shoe. “Watch out.”

The action set off an instant craving for a smoke. I forced my attention back on Jitty. “Who’s being framed?”

“That’s your job—figure it out. And you’d better be quick. Missing husbands are serious business.”

Her words made not a lick of sense, or maybe I was dazzled by that incredible body, wrapped in an impossible dress. How did it stay on her? There was no back to it.

“Shall I sing you a tune?” Her wicked smile teased me. “That’s a t-u-n-e, not a t-o-o-n. If I could sing a stool-pigeon t-o-o-n, I’d find out who framed my husband.” She slinked across the room. “Dig into it, Sarah Booth. If it’s the last thing you do.”

She sashayed toward the staircase and disappeared.

Between Jitty, Sweetie, and Pluto, I was living in a madhouse. With a missing fiancé. And missing friends. And a sheriff bent on self-destruction.

I checked in the kitchen. My note to Graf was still stuck to the refrigerator door with a magnet. My messages were still on the answering machine. And the doggy door was blocked.

How long had Sweetie and Pluto been cooped up in the house? Color me annoyed. I tried Graf’s cell. No answer. Same for Tinkie and Cece. At last I called Oscar.

“Harold said you pushed him into a creek, Sarah Booth.” Oscar sounded peeved. “He came back to work looking like he’d been in a tornado.”

I couldn’t believe Harold would go to the bank and fib about how he’d gotten his pants wet. “That’s a lie. He dragged me to the water and then he jumped in. Along with that rotten dog of his.”

Oscar chuckled. “So, what have you done with my wife? I’ve been calling her all afternoon.”

The old expression “my heart stopped” conveyed the sensation in my chest perfectly. Tinkie taking a powder did not bode well. “
I’m
looking for Tinkie. I haven’t seen her since this morning.”

The pause on Oscar’s end scared me even worse. “She said she was meeting you to work on the murder of that young man, Jimmy Boswell. She said you had plans to interview people and needed her help.”

“I’ve been on the case, but Tinkie was supposed to talk to you. She’s worried about you, Oscar. Or I should say concerned. She said you’ve been withdrawn and won’t talk to her. She thinks it’s because of Buford’s involvement in this Lady in Red mess.” I had to tell him the rest. “Cece is missing, too. And Graf.”

“What the hell?”

My sentiments exactly. What were they up to? They owed me and Oscar a call. “Do you have any idea where Tinkie might be?”

“I do, and I hope I’m wrong.”

“What?” My anxiety level notched higher.

“I’ll bet they went after Buford and Jeremiah, thinking they’d convince them to voluntarily go to a mental facility.” Oscar’s finger anxiously tapped the phone. “This sounds exactly like a windmill Tinkie would take on. I just expected Cece and Graf to have more sense than to go along with her.”

“Oh, no.” Oscar was right. Tinkie would go way out on a limb to help Oscar.

Convincing those two idiots to check into a mental health center was wasted breath. My dealings with Jeremiah told me he didn’t want help. He was mad at the world, and he wanted to inflict pain and suffering on everyone around him. Buford wouldn’t give up his bottle or his sense of power. My friends had set out on a lost cause. And a dangerous one.

“Will you find them, Sarah Booth?” Oscar sounded frantic.

“Any ideas where Buford might be?” They weren’t at Magnolia Grove.

“I have a hunting camp on the river. I’ve always let Buford use the property. You know Tinkie would chop off my fingers if I wanted to hurt an animal. Buford doesn’t hunt, either, but it’s a place he can target shoot, which is what I thought he was up to. Now I’m second-guessing my assumptions.”

Had Oscar seen the state of Magnolia Grove—a beautiful home destroyed by gunk and funk—he’d be concerned about his property. Like the rest of us, Oscar had assumed Buford and Jeremiah drank hard, talked too much drivel, and sometimes got drunk and shot off a few rounds. No one really suspected Buford and Jeremiah were up to anything serious.

I took down the directions, hung up, and pulled on my tallest leather boots. Snakes would be crawling all over the riverbanks. Before I left Dahlia House, I tried all three cell phones—no answer. There were dead spots along the river where electronics didn’t work. I sincerely hoped that accounted for the lack of returned calls from all three.

Sweetie, always ready for a ride, was panting on the front porch when I stepped out. Pluto, also exhausted, lay curled against my hound. When I made for the car, Sweetie leaped into the roadster’s front seat and we set off for the river.

My cell phone rang, but sweet relief was cut short when caller ID showed it was Olive Twist. I answered with reluctance.

“Where are you?” she demanded.

“Working on the case.” I wasn’t about to give her specifics. To be honest, I wasn’t absolutely certain I was a actually working on
her
case. Without a contract and a retainer, Delaney Detective Agency had never been officially hired, and I was more concerned with finding my fiancé and friends than with resolving her problems. On the other hand, her case and my friends all snarled together.

“I mean
where
are you? I didn’t ask what you were doing.” She sounded annoyed.

“What do you want, Olive?” I could sound just as petulant and even notch it up a measure to peeved.

“Someone sneaked into my room. I’ve been violated.”

I slowed down and pulled off on a side road so I could hear better. “You’ve been raped?”

“No, but someone came into my room and messed through my things. It’s a violation. It might as well be a rape. My intimate inner sanctum has been sullied by prying, dirty fingers.”

“Have you been working on your romance novel?”

“How did you know?”

“Word choice. Sullied. It’s sort of a romancey word. Never mind.” I pushed forward. “Tell me what happened.”

“It’s high-level espionage. The intruder read my latest brilliant passage. What if he steals it? How will I prove it was mine?”

I sighed. She was more upset that someone had read her purple prose than she’d been about her assistant’s murder. “I don’t think you have any real worries.”

“They could have photographed it. My genius shines through in each sentence, but how will I prove it’s mine?”

“I’m sure any judge worth his salt will link the written brilliance to your keen ability to communicate.”

“I’m not paying you to condescend to me.”

Oh, snap. “As I recall, you haven’t paid me anything.”

“Only because you’ve failed to come by and pick up your check. That’s what you should do right now. Hurry here to this wretched B and B and sniff out the person who intruded into my room. I’ll give you a check then.”

My aunt Loulane told me more than once that patience was a virtue I needed to learn. Judas on a Quidditch court, I was learning. I counted to ten before I answered her. “Was anything actually stolen?”

“I don’t think so.”