Buried Bones (10 page)

"I was ten. She was still a beautiful woman, only forty-two. It's odd, now that I think about it. She never spoke of it, but that summer on
Moon
Lake
may have been the only time of pure joy in Lenore's life."

Harold refilled both our glasses. "To my knowledge, she never accepted an invitation to any social event. She worked at the Presbyterian church. That was her life." His gaze found the fireplace and held to the flames. "She hanged herself from the wrought iron fence in the church cemetery."

I drank my champagne rapidly, but the bubbly had lost its magic. I had another glass, but the evening had turned as flat as my buzz.

"I'd better head home," I said at last. Harold, though perfectly mannered, had also slipped beneath the surface of the past. He and his dead aunt would spend this Christmas night together. And I would have Jitty.

He wrapped me in my coat and went out to warm the car. While I waited I toured his home, a beautiful old house filled with art. It was with some degree of surprise that I found myself gazing into a pair of piercing eyes that were familiar. The work was labeled "Self-Portrait:
Lawrence
, 1940." The image of the young writer was compelling, but the background also caught my interest. Behind the lanky young man who held a fishing rod was a huge lake. It was done in charcoal, a sketch more than a polished drawing. But far in the distance on the lake was a boat, and in it a young woman and a man were engaged in a clench. I was no art critic, but I found it interesting that
Lawrence
had chosen to include that little passionate scene in his self-portrait. What it meant was anybody's guess. Was it part of his view of himself, or something he'd witnessed that had affected him?

Ah, I wondered. What secrets had Lenore Erkwell brought back from
Moon
Lake
? It was a question she'd never be able to answer for me.

6

The real problem with Christmas for Delaney women is the day after. The feast is over, the buildup has peaked, and all that's left is the decline into creative ways of disguising leftovers. Since I'd chosen to accept invitations to eat out, I didn't even have leftovers for entertainment. No bubbling pots of turkey soup. No turkey sandwiches made with dinner rolls and cranberry sauce. No chopping and dicing for turkey salad.

The only person more unhappy than I was Sweetie Pie. She moped under the table, warming my feet as I drank black coffee, as if she knew I'd let her down in the menu department.

"You know it's a scientific fact that people resemble their dogs," Jitty said from behind my chair. She stared over my shoulder at the crossword puzzle I was stumped by.

I didn't bother to respond.

"It would seem to me that Harold would have preferred somethin' with a little more bloodline and a lot less ear." Jitty walked around the table and glanced at my loyal canine. "That's a yard dog, Sarah Booth. At least your Aunt Elizabeth only let cats in the house."

"You thought it was fine for Chablis to be in the house," I reminded her. Chablis was my friend Tinkie's little Yorkie.

"Cha-blis was temporary. Besides that little dog had class."

"Back off, Jitty," I said, pushing aside the newspaper. "Sweetie and I have bonded." I looked up and almost choked on my coffee. Tiny pink donuts were all over Jitty's head. Spoolies! Aunt LouLane had used them once in my hair. It had taken three washings to get the kinks out.

"You'd bond with anything that stood still for five minutes," Jitty muttered, oblivious of my horror.

"I didn't sleep with Harold," I pointed out, not bothering to add that if I tried he probably would have said no. For a man who made his living manipulating money, he wasn't a risk-taker in love. "Did you leave your hair up in those things all night?" When she finally took them down it was going to be worth watching.

"You wouldn't sleep with Harold because he's already asked to marry you. Why should you sleep with him when you can chase down some other man who has no interest in makin' an honest woman of you? Sex isn't the measurin' stick to rate a relationship, you know."

I liked Jitty better when she was interested in pregnancy rather than matrimony and when the long, free hairstyles of the seventies better represented her attitude toward sex. Lately, she was as tight as those damn little hair curlers.

"Sex isn't the only critereon, but it is important." I decided to devil her a little, to see if she might shoot a Spoolie across the room. "Anyway, Harold aside, there's Willem to consider. He looks like a man who wouldn't mind procreating."

"He's a dangerous man," she said, but with an obvious lack of conviction. "Lordy, he's fine-lookin'. That smile could blast the starch out of a girl's petticoats."

"Jitty!" She wasn't completely brainwashed by the fifties.

"That's all the more reason for you to steer clear of him. He's unemployed, from what I can tell. Of course that seems to be a drawin' card for you."

She was referring to several past boyfriends, none of whom I cared to defend. "He's independently wealthy," I pointed out.

"So he says." She cast me a worried look.

"He's eligible. And talented." I rubbed my hands up my arms for effect. "And he's on the market."

"Honey, a one-eyed armadillo can see he's not the marryin' kind. Better keep your libido down and your panties up." Her back stiffened and she set her mouth in that unforgiving purse. It was interesting watching Jitty hog-tie her own ardor.

"Latin men are excellent lovers. You know, a little hot blood for a cold Delta night--"

"Probably got a passel of chil'ren and none with his name." She was about to wear a hole in the floor with her pacing.

"We don't really care about a last name, do we, Jitty? Just as long as the Delaney blood runs true. Look at the bright side, he'd probably be more than glad to escape the bonds of matrimony and leave the two of us to raise a child." I scooted back my chair. "I'm going to the hospital to check on a few things."

"Forget that artist. Now a single doctor would be ideal," Jitty said. Her dress billowed on crinoline petticoats. She actually swished as she paced back and forth. I caught the fragment of a TV memory--Gale Storm concocting a plan with Esmerelda Nugent to foil Captain Huxley?

"Nah, doctors are so . . . clinical." The little devil on my shoulder was having an excellent time. "But I hear cowboys stay in the saddle just a little bit longer."

"A doctor," she said, ignoring me. "Compassionate, healing, dedicated, smart, a man with all of the right qualities."

"It's the twenty-first century, Jitty, not Beaver time. Try on the concept of an HMO."

"The problem with you, missy, is all you want is the playboys. Loose livin' and fast times. You better listen to me or you'll end up payin' the wages of sin."

I paused in the doorway. "If someone offered some sin, I'd hop right on it and ride into the sunset." I couldn't fade like she could but I darted out the door before she could respond.

In
Mississippi
, the position of coroner is elected and requires no specific talents or educational background. In my last case involving the Garrett family I'd managed to get myself in dutch with the current coroner, Fel Harper, who was now under investigation by the state for his role in body swapping.

Technically, though, he was still coroner until he was formally indicted. Figuring Fel would not be real happy to see me, I decided the best plan was to go straight to Doc Sawyer at
Sunflower
County
Hospital
.

I pulled into the parking lot of the low-slung, yellow-brick building and went through the emergency room door, hoping to avoid answering any questions from prying receptionists.

Doc Sawyer had an office off the operating room. He'd been there since I could remember, a retired general surgeon who did emergency work and also served as pathologist on the rare body that came in and required an autopsy. In Zinnia, most people died of plain, uncomplicated things.
Lawrence
was viewed as a potential problem.

I found Doc at his desk, feet propped up and hair wild and white about his head. He had a thick mustache and looked a lot like Mark Twain. He talked like a cross between Atticus Finch and Billy Bob Thornton on one of his bad-character days. He'd been our family doctor since I was a child.

"How's it going, Doc?" I asked.

"Good." He pointed at the coffeepot. "It's about like cooked mud, but help yourself."

I poured some into a Styrofoam cup and waited a few seconds to see if it might dissolve the cup. When it didn't, I loaded in some sugar and Cremora. After five spoons of the white powder, the coffee was still a murky black. "Doc, thanks for coming over to Cece's. She's going to be okay, isn't she?"

"Panic attack. She needs to take a vacation from her job. Maybe you can talk to her. But you're here about Lawrence Ambrose, aren't you? I heard you found the body."

"Yes." I took the seat he indicated. "What did he die of?"

"It's an interesting case," He dropped his feet to the floor and sat up, riffling some papers on his desk. "The natural assumption is that he bled to death."

"The assumption?" Doc's nose was red and I knew he'd been drinking, even though it was only nine in the morning. Hell, a bit of brandy wasn't a bad idea. It would probably evaporate in the coffee anyway.

"An artery in the back of his hand was severed. That was, technically, the cause of death."

"So you're ruling it an accident?" I was relieved. "There was a broken glass in the sink."

"It was an odd cut. And he bled out mighty quick. It might have been a tragic accident." He shook his head and I didn't doubt his regret, but there was also a hint of excitement in his voice as he continued. "There are a couple of things that trouble me. I'm running more tests, but right now,
Lawrence
's death is something of a mystery, Sarah Booth."

It was exactly what I didn't want to hear.

"The test results won't be back for several days. Until then, I don't have a verdict. You'll just have to wait."

After Doc's coffee, I needed something absorbent in my stomach, so I took myself over to Millie's Cafe for some biscuits and a bit of history.

Millie's was the gathering place for most of the male cliques of Zinnia and a large part of
Sunflower
County
. In the early mornings, the Buddy Clubbers had the largest table in the far right corner with the merchants huddled up on the left, the farm leaders by the rest rooms, the new-moneyed folks--scandalously including two women--in the center, and the general Zinnia breakfast-eating individual or family scattered at the smaller tables throughout.

It was a place where folks came for a cup of coffee and to pick up news while pretending to read the newspaper. While the Buddy Clubbers--the elite, white male faction of the Delta--could eat at Millie's, it was considered inappropriate for the daughters of those men, the Daddy's Girls, to dine there. I'd often gone there with my father, where we sat in a booth not part of any clique. I'd always thought it was because my father was a judge and that people were afraid of him. I'd learned as an adult that wasn't necessarily the truth.

The bell on the door jangled as I walked in. Millie was behind the counter, her apron tied around a waist still small and firm for a woman her age. She gave me a smile as she carried four heaping plates to a table of farmers who were the only patrons. It was that time between breakfast and lunch when normal people were at work, or otherwise gainfully employed. I liked to stop by the cafe in the in-between hours. Millie and I were developing a solid friendship.

After she'd refilled everyone's coffee, she put two cups down in front of me and poured for both of us. "What's happening?" she asked.

"Tell me about Lawrence Ambrose," I requested, "after I get some hot biscuits."

She retrieved my order from the kitchen and then perched on a stool behind the counter.

"
Lawrence
was a great man. I sure hated to hear he'd passed on." She pushed a wisp of blond bangs off her forehead. "I know he was old, but it seemed to me he ought to last forever." She made a small face. "Hell, I'm old."

Millie was in her fifties.
Lawrence
would have been long gone on his European adventures by the time she was old enough to remember him. "I was hoping you knew something about him."

She shook her head. "Not like you want. He dropped by to eat some after he came home to Zinnia."

She pushed her bangs back again though they weren't close to her face. "He gave me some recipes. That short rib stew with a side of cheese grits that everyone loves-- that was one of his."

I'd already eaten my biscuits, but the idea of the stew made my mouth water. Pavlov and Sweetie Pie came to mind. "Was
Lawrence
close to anyone in town, other than Madame?"