Buried Bones (22 page)

Lawrence
was part of that history and culture, and so were his cats.

"Ah, Apollo," she said, lifting the cat out of the box and cuddling him, though he didn't seem particularly interested in affection. After a moment she put him down and watched as he examined the room. As if by magic the other three cats appeared in the open doorway to the huge central hall. Apollo never looked back as he took off to be with them. "He'll adjust," she said. "They miss
Lawrence
, but they have each other."

For a woman who'd held children dying of diphtheria, she'd amazingly managed to retain her soft side.

I bent down to pick up the box. I didn't want to appear to be rude, but I wanted to talk to the veterinarian. The business about
Lawrence
's dead cat was worrying me.

"Have you found any conclusive evidence to bring Brianna to justice?" Lillian asked.

Her question startled me, but then I remembered that she and Rosalyn were good friends. It was an odd alliance, the poor dance teacher and the very sophisticated woman who'd once had great wealth.

"Nothing conclusive."

She motioned me to a chair and sat back in her own. I noticed then that her feet were terribly swollen. Having known her as an indomitable force, I'd failed to see the changes time had wrought.

"I'm worried about Rosalyn," she said. "She's obsessed with proving Brianna guilty."

I didn't say anything. Client-investigator code of ethics. The best I could hope was that escape would come sooner rather than later.

"Tell me, Sarah Booth, do you believe
Lawrence
was murdered?"

The answer was yes, but I'd learned that a nonresponse often triggers more reaction. "There's nothing conclusive."

"What have you learned about the missing manuscript?"

Obviously the gossip was all over town. "I'm following some leads," I hedged.

"I hope it's gone. Nothing good could come of it."

I was surprised. Lillian was the strongest supporter of the arts in
Sunflower
County
. She'd always been an advocate of
Lawrence
's work. This book, whatever else it was, would be of literary interest since
Lawrence
had written most of it.

"Did
Lawrence
tell you what he was writing?" I asked. If she knew what the book contained, it would certainly help me focus my investigation.

"I didn't know a thing about it until his dinner party. When I heard he was going to let Brianna Rathbone take credit for writing it, I was horrified. Now that he's dead, I hope the wretched thing has vanished forever."

"Why?"

"Only a young person can ask such a question. Imagine, if you can, what it might feel like to have the follies of your youth in black and white for everyone to read."

"Are we talking about your follies, or Rosalyn's?" I asked. Though she covered well, I could tell I'd hit a nerve.

"You're smarter than I thought, Sarah Booth, but I won't be drawn into this discussion. No one lives without regrets."

"Then may I ask another question?" I hadn't anticipated that Lillian might have information that would bear on the case. Now I thought she might.

"I reserve the right not to answer."

"Why did Rosalyn stay here in Zinnia, teaching dance to untalented and ungrateful young girls?"

She considered a moment before she answered. "Rosalyn changed that summer up at
Moon
Lake
. She went up there a young girl with dreams of dancing across
Europe
. She came back to Zinnia a different young woman, much subdued. Of course she did a stint in
New York
, but I believe she'd lost the heart to really reach. Of all the arts, dance is the most demanding mistress. Time is so brief. She came back to Zinnia because it was home."

Her answer had been carefully phrased. "What about
Lawrence
?"

"Oh, he was a talented boy."

"That's not exactly an insight, Lillian."

"What do you want me to tell you?"

"Did
Lawrence
change that summer? Was it possible he witnessed something . . . dangerous?"

"He was thrust into a world of gambling and powerful men. The rest of the world was engaged in war.
France
fell to the Germans that summer, Sarah Booth. The world as we knew it was changing.
Lawrence
was fully aware. He changed, undoubtedly. After that summer he went to Paris, a correspondent for a national magazine. He was there when he wrote his first novel. That summer at
Moon
Lake
was the turning point for a lot of things. It was the last idyll of youth, I believe, for all four of those young people."

She was a foxy old lady who knew how to dance. "I wouldn't exactly call the scene of a murder idyllic," I said flatly.

"Yes, the murder of Hosea Archer in a card game. You've dug that up, have you? The common sentiment around the Delta was that he got what he deserved."

Lillian had shown far more compassion for
Lawrence
's cats. The reference to Hosea Archer had hardened her mouth. It made me decide to press.

"Do you remember Senator Archer?"

Her hands tightened on the arms of her chair, a reflex she wasn't even aware of. "Too well. You're too young to remember, but my father had dealings with him."

"I understand Archer was something of a high roller."

"Indeed. He rolled over anyone who got in his way. My father had this idea of creating a national stud service in
Mississippi
. Along the lines of the Irish stud. Senator Archer was supposed to help him." Her face was well schooled, but it was her voice that gave her away. She hated the man. "The senator decided at the last minute that he couldn't support the idea. Father had been counting on his help. Without it, the entire plan collapsed. We lost everything except this house."

To quote a wise old country person, this pile was old but the stink was still on the turd.

"What about his son, Hosea?"

"I doubt if even his mother grieved his death. He came out to the horse ranch a few times. He was a misanthropic little sadist. It's a blessing he wasn't allowed to reproduce."

So much for epitaphs. "His murder was never solved. Did Rosalyn ever say anything about it?"

"This isn't an avenue you should pursue, Sarah Booth. Hosea Archer was trash. Let it go at that. No one cared when he was killed in 1940, and certainly no one cares now."

In the background I could hear the cats running about in another room. That reminded me of the somewhat gruesome task I needed to complete. Lillian took my momentary silence as an opportune moment to rise and indicate I should leave.

"Thank you for bringing Apollo. I'll take good care of him."

She walked me to the door, and just as I was leaving, she put a hand on my arm. "Your parents were wonderful people. I'm not so sure they would approve of your new trade."

"Rosalyn hired me," I reminded her. "I'm working in her behalf."

She ignored my parry. "I'm glad you came home to save Dahlia House."

"I hope I can."

Her smile was sad. "I hope you can, too. You never get over losing your home, Sarah Booth. Never."

I went over my list of friends and realized no one would help me with my task. Putting the spade in the trunk of the car, I made sure the box was there also. Dr. Matthews was not excited by the prospect, but he'd agreed that if I would exhume
Lawrence
's cat, he would do an autopsy.

Lawrence
had claimed the cat's body from the vet's office, so I knew it would be buried somewhere near the cottage. For the third time, I made the drive down the oak-lined drive and parked. This time I walked around the cottage to the backyard.

It didn't take long to find the patch of freshly turned earth.
Lawrence
had buried his pet beneath a wild grape arbor, and I worked carefully until I unearthed the towel-wrapped body. I moved it to the box and drove back to the veterinarian's office.

"It'll take a day or two," he said. "I have to send the tissues off to the lab."

I wondered if it was the same place that had evaluated
Lawrence
's tissues. "Check specifically for Coumadin," I requested.

His eyebrows lifted. "You think someone deliberately poisoned
Lawrence
's cat? Why?"

"It's just a hunch," I said, not willing to say what I really thought. That someone had been poisoning
Lawrence
and that the cat had simply gotten into it by mistake. "Call me."

"How's Sweetie Pie?" he asked.

"Entertaining the troops. If there was a USO show for dogs, she would be the main attraction."

He laughed, good-humored in the midst of my dog's hormonal woes. "Bring her in first thing next Wednesday. We'll take care of whatever ails her."

"Any ideas what that might be?"

He shook his head. "I took out two ovaries and a uterus. What's happening with her defies logical medical explanation. Therefore I reserve comment until I check her out."

"Call me with the results on the cat."

I had just enough time to make one more stop before I had to get ready for Harold. Even though this was a business meeting, I intended to make him rue the day he'd chosen Brianna as his new playmate.

"You want me to do what?" Coleman Peters asked, leaning against the counter so that he was only inches from my face.

"Fingerprint the bag." I pointed to the poison I'd brought in and deposited on his desk.

"Why?"

I looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping on us. "To see who might have touched it."

"I know how fingerprinting works, Sarah Booth. The why refers to why do you want to know?"

I didn't want to tell him I'd taken the bag from
Lawrence
's. That would justifiably make him annoyed.

Coleman liked me, but not enough to forgive me for mucking up his investigation. "It's a hunch."

He eyed me, and behind the blue eyes that so often held only a pleasant light, I saw the intellect of the young high school boy who'd calculated his odds and moved from football hero to sheriff. Coleman had married the head cheerleader, a perky little thing who was an asset on the campaign circuit, and from what I heard, a nag in between.

"I hear you've been a mighty busy woman," Coleman said. This time he didn't bother to hide his accusing glare.

"I don't get paid to watch soap operas."

"There's busy good and busybody. I hear you've been the latter."

He knew I'd been in
Lawrence
's house.

"I heard you and that artist searched Mr. Ambrose's cottage. Did you remove evidence from a crime scene?"

"Not a single thing." That was true. Sort of.

"What's the significance of the rat poison?"

"Coleman, I brought it to you. I could have taken it to
Memphis
and found a lab to do simple fingerprints. If something shows up, then I'll tell you everything. If it doesn't, then there's no point starting a bunch of suspicions."

He didn't budge, and his blue gaze never flinched. "Don't put yourself in a position of working against me."

"That wasn't in my game plan." It truly wasn't. I liked Coleman and thought he was honest.

"I'll run the prints for you right now." He pushed back off the counter so fast I slumped forward. He disappeared in back and came out with a kit. In a matter of moments he had out what looked to be minuscule particles of the same stuff used in magnetic drawing boards, a dark gray powder.

"Plastic is a pretty good surface." He dusted the sack with what looked like a big blush brush. Magically, the dust seemed to adhere to several prints. I felt a rush of excitement.

"Look! A print. Two of them!"

"Uh huh."

I gave him a look. He was awfully blase, but then he didn't realize where I'd gotten the sack. Or at least he couldn't prove it.

He went to the back and came out with a 35 millimeter camera that had a macro lens attachment. He set up a small tripod, carefully took aim, and photographed the prints.

"Will you match them off the photographs?" I'd seen this on television.