Smarty Bones (33 page)

“I can’t be certain, but I have this fuzzy memory of a journal or letters—records my great-great-great-grandmother kept during the Civil War.”

Harold was quick on the uptake. “And you think this might link to the Lady in Red? Why did you just think of it?”

I couldn’t tell him that Jitty, dressed as a cartoon character, had tweaked my memory. “When I was driving home from Buford’s I was so tired. Exhausted. I was thinking back to the time when my parents were alive and life was so … safe. And then there were those years with Aunt Loulane. I was thinking about her and I remembered the chest.”

“Loulane adored you, Sarah Booth. Did you know she was being courted by a lawyer from Lexington, Kentucky, but when James Franklin and Libby were killed, she declined his marriage proposal and took care of you instead?”

I pushed my straggly hair behind my ears and looked at him. He wasn’t teasing me. He was dead serious. “That can’t be. She could have moved me to Lexington with her. Surely she didn’t give up a chance at marriage and her own family and happiness.” Somehow, I knew this was true, though. The ghost of memory tickled me.

“And take you from Dahlia House? I don’t think so.” His smile was sad. “She never wanted you to know what she gave up. I’ve almost told you a time or two before, but I didn’t want to burden you. Now, though, you should know.”

Not a single time had Aunt Loulane ever mentioned the man she could have married. Not once. Not even when I went off to college. She stayed at Dahlia House, keeping it for me, until she died unexpectedly of a heart attack. “She sacrificed her happiness for me.” Was there no end to the guilt I’d feel this day?

“No, Sarah Booth. She chose happiness
with
you over marriage. A choice you should understand. Dahlia House was her brother’s heritage. She did it as much for James Franklin and Libby as for you.”

“That doesn’t make me feel a lick better.”

“For someone to love you that much.” He touched my cheek with the gentlest caress. “That should tell you how special you are. When we find Graf, if that man doesn’t marry you, I’ll take you for myself.”

I put my hand over his. “You’re many things in my life, Harold. I appreciate all of them.”

Together we lifted the tray from the old trunk. Near the bottom, beneath the christening gown belonging to the child Alice lost to a fever during the war, was a stack of old letters.

I pictured my mother, on her knees leaning over the ancient trunk, bringing the bundle of letters up from their safe nest. For a moment, I was transfixed as I remembered the pale light from the dusty windows striking her wedding band as her fingers traced the letters.

“One day, you’ll come here and read these. What’s in them remains with the Delaney family, Sarah Booth. The secrets here aren’t ours to tell.”

I had been no older than four, but the image was too strong to be fantasy. I turned to my friend. His wry smile told me he’d anticipated what I was about to say. Harold knew me too well. “I have to do the rest of this alone.”

He offered his hand to assist me to my feet. His kiss on my cheek was warm, creating the tiniest little pulse in my thumb. “Call me if you need me. Roscoe and I will show ourselves out.”

His ability to accept me, without judgment or need to intervene, was rare for a friend and even rarer for a man. I watched him disappear down the stairs with the evil Roscoe at his heels. Had I not known better, I would’ve thought Roscoe had miraculously been domesticated. But I knew his capability for deception—he was merely waiting for an opportunity to break bad.

In the golden light of an overhead bulb, I sat on the dusty attic floor to read. Dawn was breaking outside the window, and there had been no word from Coleman on the search for my fiancé or the missing corpse of the Lady in Red. Unfolding the papers, I stepped into the past.

The letters were to Alice from her parents, from some childhood friends, and—the largest portion—from her husband as he crisscrossed the South as part of a cavalry regiment from Mississippi. The stiff old pages were filled with urgent declarations of love and the lingering sense that Fate would never allow their reunion.

I could guess at the letters Alice had written him—filled with lies about the bountiful crops and the availability of help on the plantation. She would never have added to his worries by writing of the dire circumstances of the women and children across the South. And he spared her the brutal savagery and waste of life in a war that pitted brother against brother.

I’d always been curious about Alice’s and Jitty’s early lives. I was learning more than I’d bargained for. The pain and loneliness and hopelessness, though disguised by the determination of both husband and wife to shade the other from the horrors, were clear to me from the vantage point of more than a hundred fifty years later. Everyone suffered, some just more than others.

Rifling through the documents, I came across one in a feminine hand. The return address was Washington, D.C. The postmark 1860.

“My dearest Alice,” it began.

Since I fled Zinnia, my life has been more than challenging. The details would scandalize the pastor and the church ladies, so I will spare you. Just know I value and miss your friendship, offered with such a generous heart. As you no doubt know, our country is perched on a terrible precipice. I fear war between the Northern and Southern interests is unavoidable, but I intend to try to stop it.

Should something happen to me, I wanted one person to know the truth. I fled the marriage to Percy Falcon for several reasons, but murder is the primary one and my son, Jedediah, is the second. Yes, I have a son. When he is a grown man and able to make his own decisions, he’ll learn his family history, as sordid as it may be. Every man has a right to know his past and decide his future.

My betrothed, Percy, murdered his mother in Georgia. She was an octoroon who belonged to the Falcon family and was the mistress of Fletcher Falcon. She gave birth to Percy, the only male Falcon heir. Percy, a blond, blue-eyed child, was adopted by his white father and raised as a natural son. But the truth will out; it always does. In a society where a Negro has no standing or freedom, Percy could not allow the truth to come forth, so he murdered the only person who could reveal the origins of his birth, his own mother.

I could not marry and conceive children with a murderer, yet Percy took that choice from me. He raped me in a guest room at Magnolia Grove while I was visiting. He said I would soon be his and he didn’t have to wait. He is a brute and an evil man. My life with him would have been worse than that of a slave in chains. So I left, unaware that I carried his son.

I gave birth to Jedediah in Washington and have placed him with a good family. He has grown into a fine boy. I wish you could know him, Alice. He reminds me of your son, and some days when I am bereft and afraid, I pretend they are friends. Your son, the older and wiser, looking out for mine. If war is avoided, perhaps this fantasy can become a reality.

On different occasions, I’ve returned to New Orleans and other Southern cities as an emissary of the federal government. I hope to see you one day soon, if war can be avoided. I would love nothing more than a visit at Dahlia House with a glass of lemonade and the joy of your company.

Pray that war will not come, because I have no doubt our beloved homeland will suffer terrible defeat and retribution. I have a plan to compensate slave owners that may avert what can only be horrific bloodshed. Keep me in your thoughts and heart.

With great fondness,

Tilda

So this was the high stakes Jeremiah had to keep secret. His Falcon ancestor was a cold-blooded rapist and murderer. And there was black blood in the family. This was what had driven him into the arms of the Heritage Heroes and into a scheme to subvert a democratic election.

My first impulse was to shred the letter. As my fury grew, I wanted to shove it down Jeremiah’s throat. What a bunch of ancient foolishness. What family didn’t have horse thieves or bank robbers or saloon girls somewhere in their past? The Falcons had a brutal, ugly rapist and murderer. And one branch of the family had “passed” as white. So what? Who really cared? If DNA samples were taken, would anyone be able to claim a “pure” heritage? Nope. And what poppycock, anyway.

This was what had driven Jeremiah to kill Boswell and attempt to kill Olive Twist? To hide these moldy secrets? Cece, too, shared this dark past, but she would never take it as her burden. Jeremiah had nothing worthwhile to cling to in the present, so he put his emotions on the past.

The man should be hanged for stupidity.

By the time I retied the letters with the crimson ribbon, my temper had cooled. The day outside had turned from pink to lavender. I repacked the trunk and as I stood, my hand brushed my side and I felt Graf’s keys in my pocket.

I froze.

Image fragments and bits of information swirled around my brain, a kaleidoscope of shrapnel pieces that snapped into one single question: why did Gertrude have Graf’s keys? Coleman should have taken them from her. He or DeWayne should have kept them after searching the Range Rover.

But Gertrude had them. Graf had been taken on her property, his car hidden in a secluded part of her gardens.

Shortly after Graf disappeared, Tinkie and I left The Gardens’ bar. I’d seen Gertrude hustling across the unlit grounds with sheets and towels. I’d figured a guest emergency. Now a more sinister possibility arose.

The night Olive’s room was firebombed, Gertrude had appeared in the bar with shrubbery in her hair. I’d assumed it was from eavesdropping behind the bar’s ficus trees. What if it had been because of a sprint through the flowerbeds after a failed attempt to kill Twist?

But why? What stake could Gertrude claim? She wasn’t part of the high-society Daughters of the Supreme Confederacy. Why would she harm Boswell, or Twist? Or Graf? It didn’t make sense, but at last I’d stumbled on what felt like the right path.

A terrible thought followed right on the heels of my revelation. Tinkie had gone to The Gardens to question Gertrude.

Fighting panic, I called Tink. She answered with a sleepy hello. She was home safe with Oscar. She’d found nothing to indicate Graf had been in any of the B and B guest rooms. I urged her to go back to sleep and promised I would do the same.

At the front door, I considered making Sweetie and Pluto stay. The glare festering in Sweetie’s eyes convinced me otherwise. They loaded into the backseat of the SUV and we were off just as the sun topped the sycamore trees that lined the driveway.

I parked on the road and hiked across the B and B grounds. Sweetie, Pluto, and I—the Mod Squad of Zinnia—trudged side by side. I’d brought along Graf’s sock. If he was being held here, Sweetie would sniff him out.

I’d feared Gertrude might be working in the flowerbeds in the cooler morning hours, but my worries were for nothing. The only living creatures in the gardens were the birds and squirrels, and a few butterflies that had endured the summer heat. It wasn’t seven o’clock, but the mercury was already in the mid-eighties. The humidity added at least ten degrees. Summer would end, but not soon enough.

Sweetie darted off the trail and Pluto and I followed, dodging through a vividly colored bed of red salvias bordered with Sweet Williams. I was familiar with the inn proper, the gardens near the tennis courts, and those surrounding the pool, but there were areas I’d never explored, not to mention wilderness areas. My hand twitched to call Tinkie or Cece, who were far better versed on the layout of the facility. But I didn’t. My intent was to scout the area. If Graf was here, I’d call for backup.

We cut across a beautiful bonsai garden and continued, Sweetie leading the way. Occasionally, she stopped to sniff the ground, circling in different directions. Then she’d be on the scent again.

We left the tennis courts behind, and I realized we were close to the spot the Range Rover had been found. Sweetie sniffed the area where the car had been—and where I’d abandoned her—and gave me the stink eye and a low, mournful howl.

“A little forgiveness,” I lectured.

Sweetie shook her ears at me and bolted northeast. She lunged into the four o’clocks and vanished. Pluto and I hesitated, then went after her. “Sweetie!” I called quietly. This was payback for leaving her. Now she was showing me how worry felt, and I had to agree—I didn’t like it.

I couldn’t call loudly—for fear of waking the sleeping dragon. Hot pursuit was my only option. Pluto and I sprinted after the dog. The cat, for a rather tubby specimen of the family
felidae
, zoomed like greased lightning.

My long night of no sleep became apparent as I struggled after my critters. I’d lost my sense of direction. We wove through beautiful oaks and a swampy area that reminded me of a river brake. Sweetie truly had struck a trail. She knew where Graf was—or at least where he’d been. And it was no place he should have gone.

I hurled myself through unkempt tangles far from the puritanical righteousness of Gertrude’s regimented gardens. Dodging around a walnut tree, I stopped an inch short of ramming into Sweetie. She stood at attention. I followed her gaze to see Pluto batting at a grotesque brown, moldering mummy.

“Son of a—!” Sweetie hadn’t found Graf, but she had found the Lady in Red. Or what was left of her. A ragged tatter of red velvet shrouded her rib cage.

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. Coleman needed to be here. I’d punched in the first three digits when my feet were snatched out from under me. In one terrifying moment, I hung upside down. The phone flew from my grip and landed at least two feet beyond my dangling hands. Harold’s pistol slipped out of my waistband and landed beside the phone.

Gradually, I stopped swinging back and forth and my stomach settled. I caught my breath and called to my dog. “Sweetie, get the phone.” I’d stepped in a snare, and the rope circling my ankles would quickly become painful. “Sweetie—bring me the phone.”

But Sweetie was intent on something else, a movement in the bushes surrounding the clearing. Cougar, bear, wolverine, giant python—what lurked in the bushes, eliciting a low, no-nonsense growl from Sweetie Pie? Hanging upside down and swaying, I was too dizzy and disoriented to discern the threat.