Buried Bones (21 page)

"I'm sorry,
Beverly
," I said, reaching over and grasping her hand. "
Hoover
is almost like a joke to someone my age. I didn't doubt you, it's just that he's almost like a fictional character to me."

She gave me a long look. "
Lawrence
said that exact thing. He said he could never write a character like
Hoover
because no one would believe it."

"You honestly think he was in the room when Hosea was killed?"

She cleared her throat. "I believe that and more. I think
Hoover
may have shot him. Or at least he knew who did."

That got my attention. "Why?"

"I don't think the shooting had anything to do with gambling or money. There was something else going on. Look, the sheriff was in the casino. He came up, questioned me to see if I'd seen anything, which I hadn't. They loaded up the body and hauled it away. That was the end of it."

"Where was
Lawrence
when all of this was going on? Did he see anything?" Perhaps he'd witnessed the shooting. It was possible that someone from far in the past had a lot of reason to fear what
Lawrence
might write.

"No,
Lawrence
didn't see a thing. He was too busy with Lenore's boyfriend. He was outside on the front porch, playing the role of big brother. Or trying to. Lenore was . . . involved with a man. There was serious trouble brewing."

"And Lenore?"

"She was outside, chasing that man like white trash. It was quite a scene.
Lawrence
got into a terrible fight with the man. A bloody fight." She shook her head. "I've never seen a woman more obsessed."

"You're positive neither of them saw the murder?"

"Positive," she said firmly.

"Mrs. McGrath,
Beverly
, you've helped me more than you can know," I told her as I prepared to leave. "A million thanks."

"Tell Millie to come by more often. And be careful. If someone hurt
Lawrence
for poking into the past, they might not think twice about hurting you."

13

All the way home I pondered the questions Bev's conversation raised. Sweetie Pie, drowsy from her beauty nap, enjoyed the wind through her ears as we sped across the flat reaches of the Delta.

The scenario Bev had created with
Hoover
, whether accurate or not, had begun to color my own thoughts.
Lawrence
had not written about the murder at
Moon
Lake
--at least not in any factual way. But there were parallels between the facts and
Weevil Dance.
It was possible that someone powerful was afraid
Lawrence
might write the truth about that long-ago murder. A wealthy and powerful person might have hired a killer to make certain that
Lawrence
never published a whisper about the incident.

The flaw in that scenario was the time frame Doc Sawyer had imposed.
Lawrence
had been given small doses of Coumadin for at least two weeks. Not a technique a gun-for-hire would use. I still believed he was killed by someone he knew.

Bev McGrath's recounting of history made it clear to me that Lawrence was more than capable of playing with facts--and doing it with great literary skill. Using the magic of imagination and talent, he'd woven his own tapestry out of the tragedy at
Moon
Lake
. But it was also clear to me that
Lawrence
had known the true story. It was very possible someone hadn't wanted to see what pictures
Lawrence
could paint if he published his autobiography.

Hoover
's presence at
Moon
Lake
was both fascinating and horrifying. He was obviously the character Donald Bathos in
Weevil Dance,
a man of great power who provides the cloak of protection for the murder to take place, a political necessity. So
Hoover
had visited
Moon
Lake
and the Crescent casino. Gambling at that time was illegal. Though Prohibition as a national event had ended, liquor was still illegal in
Mississippi
.
Hoover
enjoyed every vice the average American was denied, and based on my limited knowledge of his predilections, perhaps a few more.

Hoover
, in his time, was incredibly powerful. His vindictiveness was legendary. He was not a snake I'd want to poke with a short stick. Had
Lawrence
decided to reveal the
Moon
Lake
incident in his biography? That would put a whole new spin on people who might want to stop publication of the book.

But
Hoover
was dead, and his reputation already tarnished by revelations of corruption, perversion, and criminal behavior.
Moon
Lake
was a long time in the past, and a book now wouldn't exactly blow the cover off his past.

Still, it would be interesting to see if any official documentation of
Hoover
's
Mississippi
visit existed. I knew better than to think I could waltz into the records department of the FBI and turn up a travel voucher for such a trip. From what I knew of politics, powerful men always thought they were above the law. They made sure to leave no official tracks.

No, if I dug around this story, I'd have to start with Hosea Archer and his father. There should be plenty of local print on the honorable
Jebediah Archer
,
U.S.
senator from
Clarksdale
,
Mississippi
. My state, like most others, had a long record of electing crooks and ne'er-do-wells. Many prominent
Mississippi
politicians, unfortunately, were also stupid. Statesmanship hasn't always been a high priority, in the past or present.

Bits and pieces of my limited memory of Senator Archer were coming back. He'd retired before I was born, but my parents had mentioned him. It was not in a flattering light. I just couldn't remember if he was simply a crook, stupid, a racist, or all of the above. It would come back to me after a little brain food.

Although I'd eaten two servings of plum pudding, I was starving when I pulled into the driveway of Dahlia House. It was late afternoon, and soon I would have to deal with Harold. I hadn't really given a lot of thought to what I was going to tell him. Or how I was going to hide the fact that I was on to him and Brianna. He'd hardly had time to recover from Sylvia Garrett throwing him over and going to
Paris
and he was already bedding Miss Most Photogenic Succubus.

As much as I didn't want to talk to Harold about my visit to
Lawrence
's cottage, I had some questions about his aunt Lenore. Strong-willed and yet a suicide. The character trait seemed to defy the fact, but then again maybe it was only strong-willed people who were capable of taking fate into their own hands. It wasn't an issue I'd given a lot of thought, but I was certain that if I brushed off my psychology texts, I'd be able to find theory and case studies. Just another lead to follow in this already complex case.

Winding down the drive, I dodged the stag line of dogs and parked. In her Connie Francis disguise, Sweetie slipped by them, and we went into the kitchen and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Since I was knife deep in the nut-butter, I made Sweetie one, too. We stood at the kitchen sink and dined together. Sweetie was totally absorbed in her food, but I kept a wary eye out for Jitty. Eating at the counter was "white trashy." Jitty had nailed me on it several times, pointing out that it was a convenient excuse for me to eat: too fast, too much, and without satisfaction. She was right--therefore I gobbled faster before I got caught. I didn't have time for the niceties.

The red light on my answering machine blinked like a tiny little pulse of possibility. I didn't catch Lillian Sparks's voice at first, but when she started talking about
Lawrence
's cats, I knew who it was.

"Apollo is still at the house," she was saying. "He must be brought to me immediately. Rosalyn has paid for your services; bring me the cat. I shall be home this afternoon and expect you to do your duty."

I rolled my eyes. Lillian was like a blackberry briar. Once you were in it, there was no way to get out without losing a little skin. The good news was that she wanted Apollo. Or at least she was willing to assume the responsibility for him. I had Sweetie, and that was enough, especially since, lately, she was the most popular bitch in town, outshining even Brianna.

Seeing as how I was already in Dutch with Harold about visiting
Lawrence
's cottage, one more trip wouldn't hurt. Although Sweetie whined pitifully to go, I left her home in deference to Apollo. It took fifteen minutes for me to drive to
Magnolia Place
. I slowed under the trees, caught by a sense of loss that, for some reason, made me think of my parents.

The crime tape was still up, the door still unlocked, and Apollo cried from within the house. I hurried to the kitchen and began to open the cabinets, looking for cat food. The poor animal had to be close to starvation.

"Kitty, kitty," I called as I searched. There had been some Seafood Delight in a cabinet. I remembered it from my and Willem's search. I cursed myself for not being thoughtful enough to open a can and leave it for the cat the day before.

"Aha!" I saw the can in the back of the pantry and reached for it. A three-can stack of tinned smoked oysters toppled over. I halted in mid-reach. A brown plastic-coated bag of rat poison was sitting right beside the cat food.

I picked up the food and opened the can. Apollo magically appeared at my ankles, winding back and forth between them. I put the food on a plate and put him in the sunroom where I could easily shut the door. Then I went back to the pantry. I'd searched the damn thing myself, looking for the manuscript. The poison had not been there the day before. I would have seen it. I couldn't have overlooked it. Yet there it was.

Lawrence
kept a stack of brown paper sacks beside his cabinet and I used salad tongs to put the rat poison in a bag. I put it in the trunk of the car and retrieved the cardboard box I'd thought to bring. I didn't mind holding Apollo, but cats are not always rational when it comes to cars. He would be safer in the box than in my arms.

Apollo was surprisingly agreeable. I made sure to cover my tracks, taking the cat food can and plate with me. I was about to start the car when I was struck with a terrible thought.

One of
Lawrence
's cats had recently died. I vividly remembered
Lawrence
sitting in my parlor, insisting that the cat had died of natural causes. My instincts told me there was another, uglier possibility. I was deep in thought as I drove to Lillian Sparks's to deliver Apollo.

True to her word, Lillian was sitting in her parlor window, one eye on the street and one eye on a German novel. She opened her front door and urged me to bring Apollo into his new home.

Lillian had grown up on a horse farm east of Zinnia on the
Tallahatchie
River
. Her family had once been very wealthy, and Lillian had studied languages at the Sorbonne. As a child she'd followed her father around the world, buying such exotic horses as Akhal-Teke, Paso Finos, Connemaras, Belgian warm bloods, and big Irish Drafts. Vernon Sparks had hoped to breed the perfect sports horse.

He'd gone bankrupt in the process, and Lillian had clung to the only bit of real estate that wasn't encumbered by debt, the family house in Zinnia. I'd visited her in the past with my father, and as soon as I stepped into the room, I remembered the bookcases that stretched floor to ceiling around a huge stone fireplace.

For a time Lillian had worked for the World Health Organization, traveling through Third World countries as if they were the familiar roads of her home state. And then she'd come home to Zinnia and begun a twenty-year crusade to preserve, protect, and cherish the history and culture of her hometown. My mother, the socialist Peace Corps worker, had loved her.