Bones to Pick (9 page)

There is little cold weather in
Sunflower
County
, and none in November. Brisk days can happen, but not often. Thanksgiving, which was just around the bend, often brought weather warm enough for shorts. Ninety-five percent humidity and temperatures above seventy made it difficult to be festive. I dreamed of snow as I drove past the fallow cotton fields.

The statue of Johnny Reb on the courthouse lawn looked a little sad. A committee had formed to demand that the statue be removed, saying it was offensive. I couldn't look at the worn bronzed face of the "every soldier" and see anything offensive. I saw sadness and loss and bitter disappointment. The statue didn't glorify the war that had torn my country apart, but it did honor the sacrifice of many families. My idea was to add other statues, not to destroy what had always been a part of my childhood.

I walked into the sheriff's office and looked around. It was empty. Coleman had fired Rinda Stonecypher, and no one had been hired to replace her.

"Gordon?" I called as I walked into the office and slipped behind the counter where the jail docket lay. "Gordon?"

It seemed no one was home. The door to Coleman's office was open. Gordon hadn't moved in, which I thought was a wise decision on his part. It was one thing for him to act like sheriff in Coleman's absence, but it was another to try and take his office.

From the doorway, I could see a sheaf of paperwork still on the desk and a small, framed photograph. I walked to the desk, feeling very much like the intruder I was. I picked up the frame and turned it around. It was a picture of cotton fields and, far at the back of the horizon, a horse and rider skimming over the fields. No one else could possibly have recognized me. I put the picture down.

"Can I help you?"

I looked up, guilty as a felon, at Gordon standing in the doorway.

"Any word from Coleman?" I asked. I didn't know how much Gordon knew about my feelings for his boss, but he was astute. He certainly knew there was something between us.

"He called about an hour ago."

"He did?" I sounded too eager.

"He's coming back. Thursday. For the board of supervisors meeting."

"Is he coming back to work?"

"You'll have to ask him." Gordon stepped out of the doorway and went to his desk out front.

I followed him like a puppy. "Did he say how Connie was feeling?"

Gordon bent his head for some paperwork. "He didn't say. I don't mean to be rude, but those are things you should take up with him, not me."

I felt a flush touch my cheeks. Gordon was absolutely right. I'd gone all over town asking questions about Coleman and his personal business. Coleman knew my phone number. If he had something to tell me, he would have called. "Thanks, Gordon. I only need one more thing. Did you match the prints at the murder scene with Allison's shoes?"

He nodded. "A perfect match. Those shoes were in that mud hole. Now if you can convince me Allison wasn't in the shoes, we'll be getting somewhere."

I thought about what he was offering. "Do you think Allison killed Quentin?"

"The evidence tells me she did. The tissue sample taken from beneath Quentin's fingernails belongs to Allison."

"But Allison said they had an argument and Quentin scratched her face."

Gordon tidied his desk. "People don't always tell the truth, Sarah Booth. You know that. But I will say that watching her and seeing how hard she's taking it. . ." He shrugged. "But guilty people are often remorseful."

"Do you have any other suspects?" I asked, not wanting to be too obvious and bring up Harold's name.

Gordon smiled. "Coleman told me to cooperate with you, but he didn't say to give away the farm."

"Thanks. I'll check back with you later." Gordon wasn't going to give me anything else, and if I was going to
Leflore
County
, I needed to get on the road.

Heading vaguely northeast, I notched the roadster up to eighty on the empty, flat highway and let my mind wander over what I knew of the case.

The way Quentin was killed indicated rage and a desire to punish. She'd pissed off a number of people, but 99 percent of angry people don't commit murder. I was looking for that 1 percent, that one person in all the suspects who could step over the line and take a human life.

I'd only been a private investigator for a year, but I'd worked on some interesting cases, and I felt I'd learned a lot about human nature. The seed of Cain was in all of us, but most people never acted on a hot desire to murder. Whoever had killed Quentin had plotted it out. She'd been lured into an empty cotton field in the middle of the night. The killer was someone she knew, or someone who could convince her to ride into the darkness with him or her. Quentin's vehicle was parked at the bed-and-breakfast.

I picked up the cell phone Tinkie insisted that I carry and dialed her number. "If you get a chance, could you stop by the jail and ask Allison a question?"

"Sure."

"Quentin must have ridden into the cotton field with her killer. Who was she talking to the last time Allison saw her? And we need to have the tires on Quentin and Allison's vehicle analyzed for composites of mud. We may be able to prove that Allison never went into the cotton field."

"Good thinking, Sarah Booth. By the way, I returned the little gift to Humphrey."

I could hear the amusement in her voice. "And?"

"He said he had another idea for something that might be more up your alley."

"I hope you convinced him to cease and desist."

"No, I told him I thought black leather was more your style."

I couldn't be certain she was teasing. Tinkie enjoyed tormenting me as much as I did her. "I'll get even."

"Oh, no doubt. I mentioned that he might want to take a camera. Just think, Sarah Booth, our client list would double if you'd pose for a few snapshots in a little leather outfit. Thigh-high boots, something with chains on the front."

She was having way too much fun. "I'm in front of the McGee estate." I gave a low whistle as I took in the manicured twenty acres with the curving drive, white fences, and Thoroughbreds grazing in a field. "Very nice."

"Old money is always the best," Tinkie said. "Before you hang up, the wake is set from six to nine. A lot of our suspects are still in town. I'm hoping a few of them will show up at the funeral home."

"We'll meet there, then." I hung up and drove toward the white-columned mansion, which would have done any Southern belle proud.

7

The McGees weren't expecting me, and the maid let me know it at the front door of the Monticello-style mansion.

"Miss Caledonia didn't say she was expecting anyone." She glared at me as I read her nameplate. Wow. Imagine having so many servants they had to wear name tags.

"I realize that, Tonya, but I'd like to talk with her and her husband, anyway."

"Do you have a card?"

It took me several minutes, but I dug out a slightly used looking business card and put it on the silver tray she extended.

"Wait here." The look she gave said "don't touch anything."

The entrance hall was beautifully appointed with marble floors, taupe-colored plaster walls, huge mirrors, and a vase of fresh lilies. Stargazers. Not so long ago a man had sent me such a bouquet. Standing in the foyer of the McGee home, I wouldn't allow myself to think of Hamilton Garrett and the future I'd thrown away.

"Miss Delaney, follow me."

Tonya had reappeared, and I straightened my posture as I followed the gray uniform-clad maid through a formal dining room to a music conservatory dominated by a grand piano.

Franklin and Caledonia McGee sat on a brocade sofa. She held a book, her thumb marking her place, and a newspaper was scattered at his feet.

"What brings a private investigator to our home?"
Franklin
stood as he spoke. He walked behind his wife, his stance protective.

"I'm working for Allison Tatum."

"I think you should leave."
Franklin
's voice thickened with emotion. "That young woman killed our daughter. We have no business with you."

"I think Allison is innocent." I spoke quietly but with the force of my convictions. "Surely you want to find the real murderer."

"And if Allison is the real murderer?"
Caledonia
's tone almost frosted my eyebrows. "Get out of our house before I slap your face."

"Darling, remember your blood pressure."
Franklin
put a hand on her shoulder. He looked at me. "As you can plainly see, you're upsetting my wife. It would be best for you to leave. Now. We deserve, no, demand the right to grieve in private."

The lord and lady of the manor act had worn a little thin with me. "You're so upset over Quentin's death, you didn't even claim her body for burial."

Franklin
flinched, but his wife only grew angrier. "Get out of this house," she said, her voice harsh.

"Miss Delaney, we haven't spoken to Quentin in over a year. She made it very plain to us that she'd severed her ties to this family. I think it would be fair to say that she hated us."
Franklin
held his wife on the sofa with a discreet grip.

"Why was she so angry with you?" I asked.

"Quentin was born angry,"
Caledonia
said. "She came out of the womb with a chip on her shoulder. And don't think you can blame it on us.
Umbria
is our daughter, and no one could ask for a more loving and devoted child. Quentin was a changeling. The fairies must have swapped her at birth."

I saw
Franklin
's grip increase as he sought to stop his wife's tirade. "We gave Quentin every opportunity that money could buy,"
Franklin
said. 'Just as we did
Umbria
. Quentin took the money and all it could buy, and then she wanted to act like it was tainted." His smile was tired. "She could have gone to public school. She didn't have to ride on the equestrian team at Ole Miss. No one forced her to accept vacations in
Europe
, week long spa treatments, and a dietician to plan her menus. In my mind, she was the worst kind of hypocrite."

Caledonia
had gotten as stiff as a board as her husband spoke.

He released his wife's shoulder and came to stand in front of me. "Perhaps Shakespeare said it best in
King Lear.
'How sharper than a serpent's tooth.'"

An ungrateful child could break a parent's heart, but I wasn't certain either
Franklin
or
Caledonia
was suffering from heart problems. It was possible they were only worried about their own necks. "Who would want to kill Quentin?"

"Almost everyone we know,"
Caledonia
said. "Can you possibly understand what she did to us? To our friends. All of their private shame, dug up and put in print. We're social outcasts now because of the action she took."

What I wanted to say had something to do with the loss of a daughter versus the loss of social position, but I kept my comments to myself. I had no right to judge the McGees because they hadn't loved their daughter the way I'd been loved.

"Quentin was a great disappointment to us,"
Franklin
said. His mouth quivered. "I'm glad she's dead."

Even if the words were spoken in anger, Franklin McGee was a fool. His wife knew it, too. I could read it in her cold eyes.

"We're both terribly upset,"
Caledonia
said. She stood up and walked to stand beside her husband, her hand on his arm. "It's just like Quentin to start a mess like her book and then to duck out on the consequences of her actions. She was an irresponsible child."

I was having a hard time believing what I was hearing. "Quentin was murdered." I said. "She didn't 'duck out.'"

Caledonia
waved a hand as she spoke. "You know what I meant."

"Where were you the night Quentin was killed?"

"Are you implying--"
Caledonia
started.

"I'm not implying anything." I was way out of patience. "I simply want an answer. Where were you?"

"It's none of your business, but we were at the Greenwood Public Library. A fund-raiser. For new books." He barked a laugh. "Isn't that bitterly ironic?"

"What time was it over?"

They exchanged a glance. "Sometime after ten,"
Caledonia
said.

I calculated the distance from
Greenwood
to Zinnia. They could have made the drive, killed Quentin, and gone home. "After you left the fund-raiser, where did you go?"