Buried Bones (15 page)

"Brianna killed him."

There was no arguing with Madame. She'd made up her mind.

"Don't waste your time and my money looking for anyone else," she commanded. "Brianna did it. You know it as well as I do. Just figure out how she did it and make her pay."

Beneath the commandeering attitude was deep grief. "How are you doing?" I asked.

"I miss the old fossil." Her voice cracked but she regained control. "The police won't tell me anything. They've locked up his cottage. I can't get in to tend to his personal affairs. Even the cats are shut out. He would be furious."

Madame was in a mood and subverting her was tricky. "Several people mentioned
Lawrence
's 1958 return to Zinnia. Why
was
he denied the job at the university?"

"Jealousy. Plain and simple. He had talent and they didn't."

"But wouldn't his talent reflect back on the school?"

"Oh, certainly that. What you don't understand, Sarah Booth, is that
Lawrence
had connections to the world of talent and glamour. He could pick up the phone and talk to Marilyn Monroe or Clark Gable, Judy Garland or Groucho Marx. He didn't even have to call them, they called him and told him their secrets, their sorrows and joys.

"He worked with all of the famous European film directors. That access gave
Lawrence
power. He would have become
more
powerful than the other faculty, so they all ganged up against him. They're inferior intellects and they thrive on mediocrity. What they couldn't stand was the idea of someone coming in and upsetting the balance of power."

Explained in those terms, I could see where
Lawrence
might stir a rebellion. "Why didn't he push it? Why didn't he sue?"

"You didn't know him, Sarah Booth." Madame's voice was worn and thin as onionskin. "You wouldn't ask that question if you did. He was a proud man. He wouldn't force his way into a job, even if he had a right to it. Times were different then. It was 1958. People didn't go to court at the drop of a hat."

"He should have," I said.

"Today, yes. Back then, no. He did the right thing. He had another twenty years in
Paris
. That was where he belonged. The one thing that might have made his life here tolerable was denied him."

Sweetie put her head on my feet, sighing deeply in her sleep. "Why did he finally come back to Zinnia?"

"Money. He ran out." Her laugh was dry, like rustling leaves. "
Lawrence
attracted people with talent and money. He introduced people, sponsored young writers and artists. For many, many years he lived exactly as he wished. Then the world changed and he was forgotten. He came home."

Her tone had turned pensive, and so I decided to risk another question. "Would this book have put him back in the literary limelight?"

"Undoubtedly. He was a brilliant writer. This was his final effort, the culmination of all of his years of living and writing. It would have been hailed not only as an incredible look at a specific period of literature, it would have been a work of art."

"Even under Brianna Rathbone's name?" I pressed.

"That's exactly what I finally made him understand," Madame said. "That's what got him killed." She took a deep breath. "Enough talk. This won't bring
Lawrence
back. Quit diddling and find the evidence we need to put that woman behind bars. I'll call you tomorrow and see what you've found."

The phone went dead in my ear, and I laid it on the table beside my chair. I was about to pick up my drink when the phone rang. The unexpected shrill made me jump, which caused Sweetie Pie to leap to her feet, a lanky tangle of legs and snarl that sounded vaguely like something from
The Exorcist.

"Easy, girl," I said as I clicked the on button. "Hello."

"You aren't the first woman to stand me up, Sarah Booth, but I must say you're the fastest." Willem's voice was deceptively smooth and rocked by Latin rhythms.

I sat straight up. I'd completely forgotten that I was to take him for a drive.

"I was out of town. On business." I offered an explanation rather than an apology until I could gauge the depth of his anger. It was a trick I'd learned from my friend Tinkie. Never overapologize.

"I would have ridden over to
Oxford
with you, if you'd asked."

"How did--"

I didn't even get to finish the question before he was chuckling, a sound that reminded me of silk rubbing against silk. He was a man who stirred my imagination in tactile ways.

"You aren't hard to track down. Was your trip fruitful?"

"How did you know I went to
Oxford
?"

"Don't get overwrought," he said. "Cece told me."

"How did she know?"

"I didn't ask. I was more concerned at why you didn't bother to call and cancel our date."

I should have felt guilty, but there was something about Willem that offset any tendency toward regret. He was too confident that he would ultimately win game point. It was not regret I was feeling but the thrill of the chase. "I thought it would do you good to wait and wonder."

His chuckle was soft and intimate, like his lips on my palm. "So often women yield to me, Sarah Booth. I quickly grow bored with them. You're not like that, are you?"

"Yielding isn't one of my finer talents." I sipped the bourbon, enjoying the verbal sparring more than I wanted to admit.

"Shall we try for a drive tomorrow?"

"You must want to spend time with me badly." Aha!

"Perhaps. Or it could be that I want a chance to return the favor." He laughed again.

"Tomorrow, then. At two."

"I'll pick you up." He paused. "Don't disappoint me."

The phone went dead and I put it down, left with a cool feeling in the pit of my stomach. Willem was fun to play with, but I didn't have to be told that he could cuddle
and
bite.

I went to bed with the jitters and dreamed of Jitty. She was at the head of a long mahogany table, the shantung tunic shimmering in a slant of golden sunlight. White, cat-eyed sunglasses concealed her eyes, but her lips were turned up in happiness. Every seat at the table was taken by a man in a handsome business suit. Twelve sleek heads, twelve pairs of dark sunglasses. They all smoked.

It was a dream of textures, as if I didn't see but felt the elements. No one spoke--there was the sense of anticipation--as if some great event were on the verge of unfolding. Only Jitty seemed to know the score, and she wasn't saying a word. As the dream faded, I awoke to a bright sun and a blanket of purest snow.

I'd barely stretched when there was a rapping at the front door. It had been weeks, but I recognized the pitter-patter of little fists and knew that my old friend Tinkie Bellcase Richmond had come acalling. By the rhythm of her pounding I could tell she was also in a snit.

"Hold your horses," I called as I grabbed a robe and ran down the stairs.

"It's freezing," Tinkie said as she sailed in, a small bundle of quivering fur clutched against her chest.

"Hello, Tinkie. Hello, Chablis," I said to the toy Yorkie who was the seed of my detective agency. In desperation, I'd dognapped Chablis and returned her for ransom. In retrospect, it seemed a low-down thing to do, but it had saved Dahlia House. Besides, I wasn't totally responsible; Jitty made me do it.

"Coffee," Tinkie demanded as she sailed toward the kitchen.

"Oh my God," she said, stopping so abruptly that I ran into her back. Luckily she's a bit shorter than I am, so no serious damage was done.

She pointed at the neon. "I've never seen anything so tacky."

"Willem says it's artistic." I cut her short.

She put it in high gear again and headed to the kitchen. "I'm desperate for caffeine," she said, pushing open the swinging door. "You can't imagine what's been going on. Oscar is about to--" She froze.

In the Delta young girls are trained to handle any situation. Whether it is a heart attack in the middle of a dance or a terrorist demanding your diamond Rolex, DGs don't freeze. I peeked around her shoulder. Sweetie Pie stared back at me, tail wagging.

"What
is
that?" Tinkie asked.

There was no time to answer. Chablis leaped from her arms and scrambled across the tile, six ounces of raging fur and fury. The little spitfire was jealous!

"No-0-0-0!" I made a dash for the furball. She wouldn't be but a mouthful for Sweetie. That hound had eaten bigger hams.

"Chablis!" Tinkie finally sensed the potential for real disaster and leaped after me. We landed in a tangle, just in time to see Sweetie's mouth open and descend on Chablis.

With five feet separating us and the dogs, there was nothing we could do but watch. Sweetie's long pink tongue came out and licked Chablis so hard the little fluff was scooted back within my reach. I pulled her to my heaving chest.

"Chablis," I said, now wanting to wring her scrawny neck for frightening me nearly to death.

Tinkie's hands closed over the dog. We all managed to gain our feet just as Sweetie came over. Her happy tail whipped hard against Tinkie's knees and made her dance.

"What kind of dog is that?" Tinkie asked again.

"Red tic hound," I said. "Sweetie Pie is my new dog."

Tinkie sighed. "Oh, Sarah Booth, there's so many other ways to show your rebellious streak." She backed away from the dog. "She's so ugly, I don't want to touch her." She looked up at me, a frown forming. "Does that make me shallow?"

"Shallow and in danger of getting clobbered. That's my dog you're calling ugly."

"Sorry." She pulled out a chair and sat at the table. "I'm sorry. I'm so flustered that I don't even know how to behave."

"What gives?" I put on some coffee.

"This whole thing with Lawrence Ambrose has everyone in a tizzy." She pointed to the last of the fruitcake, wiggling a finger to let me know the need was urgent. I cut her a slab and put a coffee cup down for her. Because she was Tinkie, I used the china with the Delaney crest.

"Back up to the beginning," I said, eyeing the fruitcake. It wasn't even eight o'clock. If I started now, I could probably eat six thousand fruitcake calories before noon. It was a definite challenge.

"You know Harold was named executor of
Lawrence
's estate."

I didn't, and I got up and poured our coffee, hiding my sudden shock. Madame was certainly going to be angry. I kept my coffee black and cut Tinkie another wedge of cake.

"Oscar got a call this morning at seven. Layton Rathbone's hired a lawyer for Brianna. She's suing the bank!"

"I thought he went back to
Geneva
or wherever he lives."

"They have phones in
Europe
, Sarah Booth. And bank transfers."

I wasn't fully awake, but I was alert enough to know that at seven in the morning, no courthouse was open so no suit could be filed. And I'd never met a lawyer that prompt or efficient.

"
Lawrence
's death has created a lot of gossip. I wouldn't jump the gun." I stifled a yawn. This was a typical Daddy's Girl maneuver--to get her papa to call in the hired guns.

Tinkie shook her head emphatically. "It's true. Just wait and see. At nine this morning, Boyd "Catfish" Harkey is going to file suit against the bank."

"What's the Bank of Zinnia got to do with any of this?"

"Brianna is claiming that Harold has
Lawrence
's manuscript locked up in the vault. She's demanding that the vault be searched--and if it isn't found there, then every safe deposit box in the bank will be opened.
Until the manuscript is found.
Oscar was wild. He said this would destroy faith in the bank."

Such a search might cause problems. Serious problems. But I wasn't certain even Brianna Rathbone and Boyd Harkey could force it. "How can you know all this?" I asked.

"Boyd's sixth wife. You remember Angela Rhee Finch, of the old Finch line. You know, some say that Harper Lee took the name for Atticus from her family. They settled the Delta back in the early eighteen--"

"Tinkie!" I well remembered the Finch family and especially Angela Rhee. A quiet girl with navy eyes and dark secrets. "Angela married Boyd? He's forty years older than she is."

"What's your point?" Tinkie gave me an exasperated look.

I'd forgotten the mantra of the Daddy's Girl. Security-security-security-security. Boyd Harkey was filthy rich. Old money, new money, drug money, dirty money. He had some of all of them. But Angela, married to the lawyer who resembled nothing more than an old and cunning catfish? It was disheartening.

"Angela called to tell you what her husband was planning?"

"This morning. She could hardly wait until Boyd went to eliminate. She has no loyalty to him. After all, he never stays married longer than five years. She's vested in the marriage pension now, so she doesn't have to mind her Ps and Qs so much."